


Experiment On Me

by SoapBoxDerby



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harley Quinn (Comics), Poison Ivy (Comics)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Dr. Pamela Isley, F/F, Harley Quinn - Freeform, harlivy - Freeform, red diamond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoapBoxDerby/pseuds/SoapBoxDerby
Summary: When Dr. Pamela Isley is asked to begin a gardening therapy program at Arkham Asylum, she has no idea what's in store for her. Soon, she'll discover that an unexpected romance is the very least of her worries.Or, the what-if AU where Harley is an inmate at Arkham and Pam isn't Poison Ivy...yet.
Relationships: Joker (DCU) & Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 713
Kudos: 865





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD I'm back, and writing a canon (ish) fic to boot!!! I thought Fielder's Choice would be my only tryst with Harlivy, but I guess I really can't stay away from these two. Big shout-out to my discord buddies for helping me brainstorm <3

Pamela knew heels had been a bad call.

“You alright?” Jason asked from beside her as they hurried to keep up with their tour guide.

“Fine,” she lied as her ankle rolled and her feet nearly slipped out from under her for the third time. Dr. Jeremiah Arkham seemed oblivious as he powered on through the dimly lit halls of Arkham Asylum. Jason only chuckled with a gentle shake of his head.

“You shouldn’t have worn heels.”

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“I didn’t know we were going to be running a marathon on our first day.”

“And to the left are the offices where our psychiatrists meet with patients,” Dr. Arkham pointed out, gesturing to a strand of heavy-duty doors with bars across the windows. Pamela shuddered as they hurried on past them.

“Up ahead is our maximum-security unit,” Dr. Arkham continued as they approached a massive door at the end of the long hallway. He pulled his keycard out and scanned it as the light turned green, followed by the sounds of three deadbolts sliding out of place. Pushing it open, Dr. Arkham turned towards them with a gentle nod of his head and an unsettlingly easy smile.

“C’mon, don’t be shy. They don’t bite.”

As Jason quirked a brow, the warden shrugged with a laugh.

“Okay, they _can’t_ bite. Come on in.”

Pamela swallowed, posture erect as she stood her ground. Jason sucked in a sharp breath, stepped past her, and passed through the door into the complex beehive of cells housing Arkham’s finest.

Pamela felt her mouth go dry as she and Dr. Arkham followed inside and the door was shut. Peering through the industrial glass were things the stuff of nightmares couldn’t even conjure. A few of them looked normal enough, save for their sinister grins or scowls, but the large majority hardly even resembled a human being.

Pamela had read about the inmates when Doctor Arkham had first reached out to her and Jason about starting a gardening therapy program at Arkham. Metahumans, they were called. Was she actually expected to teach a man made of clay how to find his inner zen while tending to chrysanthemums and repotting pine tree saplings?

“Nasty things, aren’t they?” Dr. Arkham asked, startling her as he appeared by her side seemingly from nowhere. She willed herself not to jerk, instead glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was a safe enough distance away. Frankly, she didn’t trust Jeremiah Arkham much more than she trusted the inmates — patients? — currently staring at her with their noses pressed up against the glass, condensation from their exhales distorting their image.

“Shall we stroll in a little deeper so you can start to get to know the kids you’re gonna be working with?” Dr. Arkham offered. Pamela looked to Jason, who shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, though it only came off as noncommittal at best. Dr. Arkham smiled his smarmy smile and struck up his pace once more.

As they made their way down the hall, Dr. Arkham would introduce each new face. Pamela was amazed at the lack of creativity in some of their titles. “Mr. Freeze,” “Signalman,” and “Calendar Man” were among the blandest, but some weren’t even names so much as literal labels. “The Great White Shark” and “Scarecrow,” of all ridiculous things. Pamela found herself amazed to learn that so many of these patients actually had a Ph.D., like her.

“And here, on your left, is an Arkham Hall-of-Famer,” Dr. Arkham boasted almost proudly as he finally slowed to a halt in front of one particular cell. Leaning up against the glass with a smug smirk was a lanky man with green hair and bleached white skin, inspecting his dirty fingernails and pretending he hadn’t noticed the trio stilling before him. Pamela immediately detested him.

“Joker, I got some friends for you to meet,” Dr. Arkham barked, kicking the glass the man leaned against. The wicked smile didn’t falter, but something dark flickered behind those dangerous eyes and his expression grew sour.

“That’s _The_ Joker to you, Doc,” the inmate barked. Then, as he turned to inspect the newcomers, his smile grew again.

“Oooh, goody!” Joker grinned. “New playthings! A new psychiatrist and his lady friend?”

“Actually, my doctorate is in botanical biochemistry,” Jason spoke up. “My name is Dr. Jason Woodrue and this is Dr. Pamela Isley. We’re here to begin a new plant therapy program at Arkham Asylum.”

Joker looked unamused. Jason jumped to change tactics.

“Uh, and it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Joker!” he offered with a nod. Joker’s eyes bugged out of his head as he clapped his hands and rocked back on the balls of his feet.

“Oh, my! _Mr. Joker!_ Why, you can just call my Mistah J, Puddin’.”

Pamela swallowed uncomfortably. She’d heard about the Joker before, and his reputation hardly even scratched the surface of how it felt to stand in his presence.

“Right,” Dr. Arkham grunted. “Well, Joker, I've got a tour to finish. Enjoy your dinner.”

“I’ll picture your face on my meatloaf while I shovel it down!” Joker responded with a devilish cackle, shoving himself up against the glass once again and baring his teeth. Jason winced, but Pamela’s attention had already moved to the next cell, which was empty, to her surprise.

“Is no one staying in this one?” she finally spoke, gesturing to the empty glass cage.

“Huh?” Dr. Arkham grunted. “Oh, no. Patient’s out for electrotherapy.”

“Electrother-”

“Anyway,” he interrupted as they reached the end of the unit and he scanned his card. “What do you say I take you to your offices?”

Opening the door for them, he gestured to the hallway that followed.

“These are the working offices for staff that don't fall under medical classification. We go through staff so quickly here, we’ve pretty much stopped painting names on the doors. Now we just hang up a sign with some command strips and call it a day, hope that’s alright with you two.”

This was easily the weirdest first day on the job Pamela had ever experienced.

“Here you are, Dr. Woodrue,” Dr. Arkham said as he gestured towards an office. “And Dr. Isley, you’re just next door. Here are your keycards, tomorrow’s schedules, and the patient files are already in your filing cabinets. I recommend you read up. Don’t wanna be caught unawares when you get started tomorrow!” 

And with that, the warden turned on his heel to go back the way he came, scanning himself back in and leaving two very perplexed doctors behind him. Woodrue quirked a brow.

“This is where we work? So close to the inmates?”

“And we have to walk through max to get to our offices,” Pamela sighed distastefully. “Great.”

“Who do you have tomorrow?” he redirected in an eager attempt to change the subject. Pamela glanced down to the schedule-clad clipboard in her hands.

“Uhhh…. Victor Zsasz, Killer Croc, and… geez. Crazy Quilt?? What kind of master villain calls himself Crazy Quilt?”

“The criminally insane kind, I guess. I’ve got Calendarman, Scarecrow, and someone calling himself Harlequin. These guys seriously need to come up with better names.”

Pamela nodded, trying to feign interest while simultaneously shrugging her head towards her door, thus failing miserably.

“Well, we’d better get in there. Lots of reading to do before tomorrow.”

“Uhuh. Good luck, Isley,” Woodrue smiled, shoving her shoulder gently (but hard enough to annoy her) before turning on his heel and disappearing into his office. She followed his lead, slipping inside her own and shutting the door.

Alone for the first time since the day began, Dr. Pamela Lillian Isley turned towards the room and heaved a great sigh of relief. Leaning back against the door, cautiously aware of the way it rattled dangerously in its frame, she took in the space she’d be working out of for the foreseeable future. It looked like it had come straight from the set of Mad Men. She knew Arkham Asylum had been built in the 60s, but had they seriously not renovated since?

Dropping her briefcase to her desk, Pamela’s fingertips trailed along the stained grain as she took in the rest of the room. It was pretty bland, with nothing but the desk, chair, a lamp, and the aforementioned filing cabinet in the corner that looked like it had rusted shut ten years ago. She checked the lamp on the desk, which offered very little in the way of illumination, though contributed heartily towards the creepy outdated insane asylum aesthetic. She tried a handle of the filing cabinet and finally managed to wrench the top drawer open after tugging with all her might. Inside was a plethora of files, separated into categories such as “metahuman,” “human,” “deceased,” and “escaped.” She flipped through them rapidly, recognizing names from the radio and the evening news before finally discovering the files she was looking for. Pulling out Victor Zsasz, Killer Croc, and Crazy Quilt, she turned towards her desk and started with the inmate that looked the least threatening in his mugshot.

“Okay, Crazy Quilt,” she sighed, plopping down into her office chair and leaning back, kicking her feet up on the massive oak desk. “Let’s see what kind of nut job names themselves after an Etsy shop.”

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Pamela didn’t mind falling asleep at work. In fact, it happened frequently. So many hours at the lab, so much sleep lost scribbling out formulas and to-do lists, she was quite accustomed to catching a little shut-eye in the workspace, provided she was alone and could afford to. What she minded was waking up with a kink in her neck and a puddle of drool muddying up Killer Croc’s mugshot (or was he just always that ugly?). With a groan, she sat up in her seat and rolled her neck to the side, popping it and relieving a little of the pressure that had been built up.

Checking her phone, she winced. The psychiatrists and therapists had all gone home hours ago, the sunlight had stopped streaming in through the rickety wooden blinds, and she had a missed text from Jason asking to meet up for drinks when she got off. She felt her back prickle with a cold sweat — after 6 pm, Arkham Asylum made the switch from mental hospital to prison state. And Pamela was stuck in it.

Standing to her feet, she packed the files away into her briefcase to finish at home and took one last glance around the office, making a mental shopping list for her next Office Max run. When she’d delayed the inevitable for as long as she could, she pushed the door open and tiptoed down the hall towards the maximum-security unit.

Scanning her keycard, Pamela realized she had never tested it out before and was relieved to see the scanner turn green — she would have been stuck overnight had it not. As the three deadbolts slid out of their locks, she sucked in a sharp breath to steady herself and stepped aside as the unit opened up for her.

The second the door opened into the unit, the once-docile inmates were pounding at the glass of their cells, hopping about like wild animals in a zoo and screaming like banshees. The most civilized called out derogatory terms and thrust their pelvises against the glass. The women, though few and far between, hissed and glared as Pamela passed. At one point, she passed by Victor Zsasz’s cell. He was gracious enough to smile nastily at her while tracing one of the larger scars stretching across his chest.

“Fly with me, little birdie,” he purred. Pamela couldn’t find an articulate response to that, so she turned on her heel and continued down the hall.

It wasn’t like she could really blame them, she thought. If _she_ had been stuck in a glass cage and experimented on and all but tortured day in and day out, she probably would have barked and screamed and rattled about at any unfortunate passerby, herself. Still, it didn’t make it any easier, and she couldn’t get out of the horrid place fast enough.

Pamela had tried to walk through the entire unit with her head held high and her gaze fixed forward. Efficient. Painless, if she pretended it was. One at a time, she could handle the worst of them, but being on the receiving end of every maximum-security inmate’s attention all at once was a lot to ask of a person. And as she approached the cell she most dreaded, her blood ran cold when she heard her name barked at her.

“Dr. Pamela Isley!” Joker cried. Pamela didn’t have to look at him to know that he was smiling. Turning slowly on her heel, she saw him standing before her, separated by nothing more than a plank of glass, cupping himself through his standard-issue orange pants. He was hard. Pamela was surprised by the calm disposition that took over.

“Joker,” she offered softly. “How are you this evening?”

Looking down at his crotch and then back at her, he snorted.

“Pretty good, doc, I thought that much would be obvious.”

She wanted to shrink away, but her back would have only hit another demented inmates’ cellblock. The only escape was by pressing on down the hall. But try as she might, she found her feet rooted to the floor and her eyes clamped on his beady black ones. So she continued.

“Any particular reason for your, er… current state?” she asked, hiding her shaking hands by gripping at the handle of her briefcase until her knuckles turned white. Jesus, she was a rockstar today.

Joker snickered, tightening his hold on his groin.

“You mean why is my dick hard?”

Pamela had always hated that word. But she didn’t cringe.

“Because,” Joker continued as if it was the plainest thing in the world. “It’s 8’o clock.”

Her curiosity got the better of her as her head tilted to one side.

“Sorry?”

“A perk of being the Jester of Genocide,” Joker smiled. “You’ll find out soon enough, Puddin’.”

Pamela opened her mouth to prod further, no closer to understanding, when a guard began to walk towards her from the direction she had been heading.

“Doctor!” he barked. When Pamela jumped skittishly, he had the decency to look apologetic. He probably had very little experience interacting with the medical staff that couldn’t get out of Arkham fast enough when the workday ended. It was likely he clocked in after they all left for the night.

“Could I escort you out?” he offered, his tone a little kinder this time. Pamela nodded to him, turning once last time to the Joker.

“I hope to see you soon,” she said honestly, the out-of-character boldness taking her by surprise. Joker, for his part, didn’t look one bit surprised as he bowed his head in mock gentlemanliness.

“‘Till next time, Dr. Isley.”

Pamela followed the guard out, close at his heels as he escorted her to the door that separated maximum security from the front offices. As he scanned out, he nodded towards her politely.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be caught in Arkham past hours.”

And he left it at that. Pamela blinked as he shut her out and returned to his inmates, feeling no safer on the outside of the unit than she had on the inside. She must have been pretty wrapped up in her thoughts as she gazed in through the tiny square window just above her eye level, because when she felt a hand on her shoulder she jerked.

“Jesus!” she yelped, hand flying up to her chest before whipping around to find herself face-to-face with Dr. Joan Leland, head psychiatrist. Pamela recognized her picture from the news when the medical doctor had rehabilitated Arnold Wesker and made Arkham Asylum history — most inmates either escaped or died within its moldy walls.

“Sorry!” Dr. Leland rushed, showing her palms to prove she meant no harm. “I didn’t mean to scare you, you were just staring pretty hard through that window.”

“Oh,” Pamela mumbled. “Sorry. Still getting a hold of all of this, I guess.”

Dr. Leland nodded understandingly, a flicker of sympathy behind her brown eyes. She jerked her head behind her towards a door that boasted her name proudly on a small plaque.

“Why don’t you sit down with me in my office?” the psychiatrist offered. “If I know anything about Dr. Arkham, I know you’ve still got a ton of questions.”

Pamela opened her mouth to object, to say it really wasn’t necessary, but Dr. Leland held her hand up and quieted the redhead.

“Dr. Isley, it’s no trouble at all. Unless you have somewhere to be?”

Gazing at Dr. Leland, Pamela deduced there was nothing self-serving or nefarious about her, unlike everyone else she’d met at Arkham that day. Pamela felt at ease in the presence of another female coworker, the first (and only, as she would discover later) that she would meet in her new place of work.

“If it really isn’t any trouble,” the redhead mumbled, a soft blush dusting her cheeks. She had never been good at accepting help from others. Dr. Leland only laughed, turning towards the door and shoving it open with the help of a hip-bump.

“They stick,” she offered by way of explanation as Pamela quirked a brow. “Come on in, Dr. Isley.”

Pamela stepped in behind the other woman and found herself enveloped in the scent of warm vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. As she settled into the chair across from the psychiatrist's desk and inhaled deeply, the brunette chuckled.

“I figure I suffer here enough as it is,” she shrugged while she took her seat behind the desk. “Why not make the place smell nice? Plus, the room spray was left in the desk when I took the office, the psychiatrist before me must’ve left it.”

Pamela nodded, clasping her hands together in her lap and trying valiantly to think of what to say. She just didn’t know how to talk with others when there wasn’t an agenda present, that was all. Enjoying herself in the company of strangers was not something that came easily to her. Luckily, Dr. Leland seemed to notice Pamela’s discomfort and took the conversation in her own stride.

“So, Dr. Isley,” she saved, a warm twinkle in her eye. “‘Gardening therapy,’ is that right?”

Pamela relaxed immediately.

“That’s right,” she smiled heartily, but humbly. “Dr. Woodrue and I are developing a gardening therapy program, but the rehab facilities won’t accept it until it’s been tested. Arkham was the only place close enough that was willing to let us… well, uh-”

“Experiment?” Dr. Leland suggested. Pamela cringed at the choice.

“For… lack of better word, perhaps. But I don’t think the program can do them any harm.”

“And the program,” the psychiatrist continued, her interest piquing, “what exactly does it entail? Are you teaching them, working in the field with them, what?”

“First we’ll be meeting with each participant,” Pamela explained, trying not to quote her job description too word-for-word. “Walking them through what they can expect, asking them what they already know about gardening, etcetera. After we’ve met with each patient, we’ll conduct group gardening where we teach them how to pot, water, ultimately how to care for these plants. They’ll learn responsibility, real-world skills, that sort of thing. Hopefully by the end, each inmate will get their own little plot in the greenhouse.”

Dr. Leland nodded — she remembered when the greenhouse had been built behind the exercise yard a few weeks ago.

“And you know how to speak with the criminally insane?”

Pamela squirmed. She hated when people asked about this.

“Actually, my degree is in botanic biochemistry. But I do have a minor in psychology, so it’s not much, but-”

“You can handle yourself,” Dr. Leland nodded. “And hey, listen, if you ever want to talk about how to handle that side of the job, eight years of medical school and four years of residency weren’t all for naught. I’m a night owl, all you have to do is come knock on my door."

Pamela was a little staggered by the proposition.

“Th- Thank you,” she stammered. “Yes, that would be… so helpful, thank you so much.”

Dr. Leland smiled, leaning back in her set with a confidence Pamela wished more than anything she could emulate.

“It never really gets any easier,” the psychiatrist admitted. “Walking down that hall, seeing the inmates, letting them spit at you. But you learn how to handle it. And with time, you’ll hold your head a little higher.”

“I was worried about that,” Pamela sighed. “I guess my job isn’t nearly as hard as yours in that regard.”

“I doubt that very much,” Dr. Leland laughed. “ _You_ have to be nurturing. Me, I can be an asshole as long as I get their meds right.”

“I doubt very much that you’re an asshole,” Pamela mumbled under her breath, noting the little smile Dr. Leland offered in response. For a moment, a short, surprisingly comfortable silence passed between them as Pamela fiddled with her watch and Dr. Leland only gazed at her absorbedly, tapping one thumb with the other. But a glance at the clock on her wall uprooted the serenity of the scene.

“Oh, god, almost 9 already. Dr. Isley, it was really lovely to meet you. I’m behind on some SOAP notes, maybe we could continue this conversation tomorrow? Maybe lunch?”

Pamela nodded eagerly, understanding this as her cue and standing.

“Yeah, that’s great! I’ll just knock on your door.”

Dr. Leland chuckled with a nod and Pamela turned to leave, but stalled for a second in the doorway, turning back to glance at her new friend.

“Dr. Leland, if you don’t mind my asking, why did the psychiatrist leave? The one who left the room spray in the desk?”

The woman seated behind the aforementioned desk looked a little taken aback by the question. She folded her hands and bit her lip pensively before answering.

“I guess you could say she didn’t really leave at all. She’s an inmate here now. Used to go by Harleen Quinzel.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAN ART ALREADY! Thanks to the amazingly talented hyperfoxo_art_72 for this precious shot of baby Pam. If anyone has more art you'd like featured, message my on discord at SoapBoxDerby#6855
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/CBrNKoPAwbS/

Pamela released an exhausted sigh as Victor Zsasz was escorted out of her office the following day. Maybe she should’ve double majored in communications, after all, she thought as she replayed their conversation over in her head.

_“So, Mr. Zsasz, you’re interested in gardening?”_

_“My therapist signed me up for this.”_

_“Great! What’s your favorite pl- oh. Oh, I see. Well, what do you hope to gain from this experience?”_

_“I don’t.”_

_“You don’t what?”_

_“Hope to gain from this experience.”_

_“Oh. Well, I, uh… you… do you have any history? With gardening?”_

_“One time I cut up the neighbor’s cat and shoved a pine cone inside it and the next summer there was a tiny little pine tree growing in our backyard.”_

_“That’s… a start, Victor."_

Then again, communication was never her strong suit. Ironic, wasn’t it, that an insane asylum would choose to hire her of all people? Pamela I-Hate-Conversing-With-Others-And-Want-To-Lock-Myself-Up-With-My-Plants-All-Day Isley?

But she knew why Arkham had hired her. It was because she and Jason were a package deal. He’d said that when they called, demanded that if he started the gardening therapy program at the asylum, they had to take Pamela on, too. He’d been her hero that day. Now she wanted to strangle him for being the means that landed her in this hellhole.

Adjusting the wide-frame glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, she struck a line in red ink through Victor Zsasz’s name, then eyeballed the “Killer Croc - 12:30” just beneath it. She glanced up at the cheap, plasticky clock she’d bought that morning before coming in to work. She had about ten minutes. In ten minutes there would be an entire crocodile sitting across from her. How was she even supposed to-

A knock at her door jerked her from her thoughts. Though she couldn’t see through the fogged glass of the window, she knew exactly who was waiting on the other side. Adjusting her glasses once more (though they hadn’t moved since she’d last touched them) and running a hand through her unruly red mane, she scooted to the edge of her seat, folded her hands against the big oak desk, and cleared her throat gently.

“Come in.”

Dr. Leland pushed the door open gingerly with her elbow, each hand carefully cradling a coffee in a disposable cup. Pamela’s mood lifted instantly.

“Dr. Leland,” she teased, feeling a little emboldened by her most recent interaction with a serial killer. “Is one of those for _me_?”

“As a matter of fact, Dr. Isley,” Dr. Leland retorted with a playful smile as she settled in the seat across, “they’re both for _me_.”

Pamela’s smile dropped and Dr. Leland let out a hearty laugh.

“Of course it’s for you. They both are, actually, mine is already in my office and you’re going to need the extra caffeine to get you through your first day of meetings. Plus,” she leaned forward a little and dropped her voice down low — Pamela could smell her perfume from here — and tapped the coffee cup closest to her, “one of them has a little Irish cream to keep you going. But I’d wait till 4 rolls by to start on that one.”

Pamela laughed — actually laughed, the first time in weeks — and Dr. Leland beamed.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate having a friendly face around,” the redhead admitted. “I was so worried I wouldn’t… um… I was worried I wasn’t… I’m sorry, I’m not always great at articulating what I’m thinking-”

“It’s a good thing you're friends with a psychiatrist, then,” Dr. Leland smiled. “How about we talk about it over dinner sometime?”

“Oh?”

_Oh._

“Oh.”

Pamela understood. She understood well what was happening. And it wasn’t unwanted or unpleasant or even misread. Dr. Leland was beautiful and she certainly had everything that Pamela would look for in a woman, _were she looking for a woman_. But romance was something foreign to Pamela. She didn’t understand the appeal, she couldn’t grasp desire. Not to mention the trauma that had come from her attempt at telling her parents she might be anything but straight in high school.

So sure, Dr. Pamela Isley was attracted to women, but that was simply because they were the lesser of two evils.

“I… see I may have overstepped,” Dr. Leland spoke after staring at Pam for a minute while the latter had an existential crisis.

“No!” Pamela blurted. “No, no, no. I didn’t mean… god, here I go again. You are… great. You’re great! But I’m not-”

“Gay?”

Pamela’s face flushed. When she spoke again, her voice was much smaller.

“No. I am.”

“So it’s me, then?” Dr. Leland confirmed. “Oh, thank god, I was worried I’d lost my gaydar. Listen, Dr. Isley, it’s not a-”

“Pam,” Pamela interrupted. Dr. Leland blinked.

“Pardon?”

“My friends call me Pam.”

Dr. Leland smiled at the tiny victory.

“Call me Joan, Pam.”

Pamela bit back a smile, nodding.

“So?” Joan asked. “You were using your words?”

“Right. _Joan_. What I mean is, I’m married to the work. And Jason is like my work wife, you know? I don’t have time for much anything else. I go to work, we meet up afterward to go over projects, discuss my professorial application to Gotham University, that sort of thing. Besides, I doubt I’d really be all that great of a partner to anyone. I didn’t have a great example set for me as a kid, of what a good relationship was supposed to look like. And getting close to people… scary, that’s scary. Don’t you think that’s scary?”

As she finished rambling she looked up to find a soft smirk twitching at the corners of Joan’s mouth. She frowned.

“What?”

“See?” Joan asked smugly. “Was that so hard? All I did was create a light personal connection between us and you were able to articulate yourself perfectly. What you need, Pam, is someone who listens. Preferably someone with a doctorate in psychology but _definitely_ someone other than Work Wife Woodrue. And anyway, whoever said I meant dinner as a date?”

Pam flushed. She hadn’t really considered that, and now she felt foolish.

“We can be just friends, Pam,” Joan concluded as she stood and adjusted the tuck of her button-down. “I’m ready to listen when you’re ready to talk. I’d love to get into that deep-seated childhood trauma.”

“Wait!” Pamela called after her as Joan started towards the door and opened it, smiling all the while. “How do you know I have any deep-seated-”

The door shut behind her, and Pamela huffed, leaning back in her seat.

That wasn’t fair.

Before she could mull over the interaction further and begin the process of overthinking, another knock came from outside. Pamela groaned in exasperation before adjusting her posture and folding her hands once more, mimicking the routine she had minutes ago. She cleared her throat, repeating herself from before with just a hint more agitation in her tone.

“Come in.”

“Dr. Isley,” a guard nodded as he opened the door and poked his head in. “C.O. Iconis again. Killer Croc here for his afternoon appointment. I’ll be waiting outside if you need me.”

With Pamela’s curt nod of approval, C.O. Iconis dipped back into the hallway, returning again with—

Oh god.

Oh god he was really a crocodile.

Killer Croc lumbered into the room — barefoot, Pamela noted with an upturn of her nose — and settled into the chair, metal creaking. He laid his wrists willingly to be cuffed to the arms of the chair by C.O. Iconis and looked up at Pamela, third eyelid blinking. She fought a shudder.

“Thirty minutes,” C.O. Iconis reminded before stepping out of the room and closing the door. Pamela turned back towards Killer Croc, whose reptilian eyes were still trained on her. If Victor Zsasz had been difficult to hold a conversation with, she could only brace herself to fall flat on her face now.

“Right,” she mumbled. “So, uh… you ever heard of chrysanthemums?”

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Pamela felt the blood pounding through her her veins with newfound vigor and ferocity as she struck “Killer Croc” out in red ink. She scribbled out the entirety of the first word until only “Croc” remained, as he had politely asked her to refer to him (claiming “Killer” was no longer apart of his identity). The young doctor shook her head — ironically, Croc had been much more humane than the supposedly human Victor Zsasz. Still, she was still having an incredibly hard time getting past the 64 razor-sharp teeth and three sets of eye-lids. She wished Dr. Leland were here with more coffee — against the good doctor’s advice, Pamela had finished the first cup and already delved into the second one. And Joan certainly didn’t skimp on that Irish cream.

Her phone began to vibrate against the table. Glancing down, she saw the call was coming from the Arkham psychiatry office. Feeling another cold sweat prickling at her lower back, she unlocked her phone to accept the call and held it to her ear.

“Hello?” Her voice was timid, but she forced faux confidence.

“Crazy Quilt’s had an incident,” came Joan’s voice on the other line. Pamela relaxed and let out a soft sigh. “You’re clear for the rest of your evening.”

“Thank god,” the redhead sighed. “Is it weird I was dreading him the most?”

“God, no,” Joan snickered. “He’s the nuttiest sonuvabitch in this place. Also, get a pen and paper.”

“Why?” Pamela asked, even as she pulled over her notepad and pen.

“523-8295.”

“What?” Pamela prodded, obediently scribbling down the number.

“That's my personal number,” Joan explained. “So you don't have to call the office phone if you need to get a hold of me. Buh-bye now.”

“W-”

The line clicked, and Pamela smiled despite herself, glancing down at the number she'd unknowingly scribbled on the pad and chuckling to herself. Maybe one day, she would have the swagger and poise of Dr. Joan Leland. God, what she wouldn’t give to casually drop her phone number to somebody that way.

She looked at the time. Almost 2. Jason would be starting with his third patient in just a few—

She heard the alarms going off before she’d even finished tracing over the number. Red flashed outside of her window as the obnoxious bell clouded her brain.

Oh god oh god oh god they hadn’t gone over this during the tour yesterday—

There comes a time in situations such as this one — the kind where one finds themself completely, irrevocably unprepared — when the only thing to be done is absolutely nothing at all. When an alarm starts going off at Arkham Asylum of the Criminally Insane on one’s second day at work, there isn’t much for one to do but sit and wait it out. So Pam did, with remarkable grace and impeccable dignity. She tucked the pen in her hand behind her ear. She rolled her shoulders, pushed her glasses up her nose, and lifted her chin. She sat proudly as if waiting expectantly for someone to march right through her door for a meeting.

And then someone did.

Of course, Pamela started. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk and she jerked in her seat as the newcomer came flying through her rattling wooden door and slammed it shut. Her heart hammered in her chest as she realized the newcomer was female, blonde, with hair tied up in two pigtails. Her knee twitched of its own accord as the newcomer’s eyes darted about the room and fell to hers.

And Dr. Pamela Isley’s heart seized when the woman smiled a crazed smile.

“Hiya, doc,” the woman grinned.

Pamela really wished she had one of those little red buttons under her desk like in the movies. She couldn’t really yell for help — if this woman was in Arkham, she was dangerous. And with such a tiny frame and short stature, Pamela could guess the inmate had a knack for fighting and could use her environment to her advantage. So she removed her hands from the edge of her desk (hoping she hadn’t dug claw marks into the weathered wood) and tented her fingers, feigning a cool demeanor with such conviction that she almost had herself persuaded. When she spoke, her voice never faltered.

“Hello.”

The blonde just leaned back against the door, knocking her head against the glass as she laughed. Her giggles were jarring, sadistic, cruel, even, but there was a twinkle in her tone that made the sound surprisingly pleasant.

“Whatta funny thing to say," she said through her guffaws.

Pamela frowned.

“I don’t see how saying hello after you’ve greeted me is _funny_.”

“No, _dummy_ ,” the woman explained with a roll of her eyes, pushing off the door and taking a few steps into the room. “I jus’ think it’s kinda funny how you didn’t ask who I was or nothin’.”

Pamela flinched a little as the blonde sat down in the metal chair across from her. She had entertained two other Arkham inmates in this chair that very day, but their wrists had been cuffed then. The blonde kicked her feet up, crossing them at the ankles as she sat in the chair like a privileged emperor on his throne. The large oak offered little separation between the pair and did little to quell Pamela’s growing anxiety. Yet still, she never faltered, and the heart pounding away rapidly in her chest went unnoticed.

“Are those alarms for you?”

The blonde looked up from the hangnail she was picking at and grinned wickedly. Pamela noticed her eyes for the first time — blue, like Bette Davis.

“Well they’re not just playin’ em for fun,” the blonde finally offered by way of an answer. Pamela scowled. This inmate certainly had an odd way of carrying on a conversation. Then again, who was she to criticize someone’s conversational skills?

“So this is a code red,” Pamela finally concluded. “You’re a runaway inmate.”

“Code red means I got outta the building,” the blonde corrected. “This right here’s a code pink. My second in a month. I coulda gotten out, too, but my Puddin’…”

“Pudding?” Pamela interrupted. She’d heard that nickname thrown about the last two days.

“He jumped the wrong guard and they locked him back up. So, I guess I’ll be headin’ back to my cell soon.”

“You could leave…” Pamela clarified, glancing at the thin window to her left that could easily be shattered, “and you’re staying because your friend didn’t make it out with you.”

“Oh, you’re really green, ain'tcha,” the blonde giggled. “Mistah J ain’t my friend.”

“I should call someone,” Pamela tried lamely, extending her hand toward her phone. She knew it was a dumb idea even as she did it, but god, where would she be if she didn’t at least try to fake a moral compass? Before her fingers had reached the device, the newcomer suddenly swung her leg across and down, her heel landing on the phone and shattering the glass screen.

“Wh-”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” the blonde spoke. “Sorry aboutcha phone, but a fancy doctor like you should be able to get a new one pretty snappy, right? How much they pay you here? My starting pay was 250k a year.”

Pamela’s eyes grew wide in realization. Of course - the bleached skin, the crystal blue eyes, the timing of her escape. Pamela knew exactly who she was dealing with now. The blonde watched the gears turning in Pamela’s head and painted on a coy smirk. Extending her hand and conscious of the way the redhead winced, she introduced herself.

“Harley Quinn, nice to meetcha.”

Despite everything nagging in the back of her mind, Pamela found herself hypnotized by those baby blues. She reached across the great oak desk and grasped the pale hand, shaking it firmly.

“Dr. Pamela Isley.”

“So I was right,” Harley smirked as she drew back. “You are a doctor.”

Pamela nodded, regaining an ounce of composure and lacing her fingers together.

“How long until they burst into my office and find me talking with an escapee?”

Harley smiled.

“I got a minute or two. Why? Hoping to exercise some of that doctor/patient confidentiality?”

Pamela blushed. She tried to fight it, she hated herself for it, but her cheeks flushed crimson, nearly the color of her hair.

“I’m not a psychiatrist, Miss Quinn.”

“Boo,” Harley pouted. “What good are you, anyway?”

“I… I…”

Come on, Pamela, use your words.

“I plants?”

Harley smiled smuggly, leaning forward in her seat, inching closer and closer.

“You… plants?”

Pamela nodded as Harley continued to ease forward, showing no signs of decelerating. Oh god, what if she hit her? What if she _touched_ her? What would she—

“I like this,” Harley whispered when she was inches away, gesturing to the pen tucked behind Pamela’s ear from before. “Does it click?”

“D- Does it click?” Pam repeated. Harley rolled her eyes.

“Jesus, ya sure you got a doctorate? The pen, Doc, does it click?”

“I mean… y- yeah.”

Harley smiled. She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind the same ear holding the writing utensil. Pam blinked rapidly.

“I want it,” the blonde hummed. “Let me have it.”

“I- I don’t think I’m supposed to-”

Harley plucked it from behind Pamela’s ear. The second it was in her hand, her thumb was pressing down on the cam repeatedly. She groaned in delight.

“God, that’s good. The guards, they don’t care about my ADHD, ya know, makes it hard to find any outlets.”

“You can’t just take things that don’t belong to you,” the redhead mumbled weakly. Harley scoffed.

“How’dya think I wound up in this joint? Besides,” she put the tip of the pen in her mouth and clamped her teeth around it carelessly, rekindling the fiery blush creeping up Pamela’s throat, “when I see somethin’ I like I wanna grab it before anyone else can.”

Pamela nodded wearily, eyes following as Harley dropped back into the metal chair and abused the pen in her mouth.

“I think I’m gonna hide this somewhere they won’t find it,” the blonde smiled, pulling it from her lips and clicking the cam again over and over. “Yeah. Then when it gets quiet at night, I’ll pull it right back out.”

“You really aren’t going to try to make a run for it?” Pamela asked despondently. Harley smiled up at her, taking the time at last to the look the taller woman up and down. She shrugged.

“I think I might jus’ stick around for a lil while longer,” she said nonchalantly as the door was thrown open and guards with guns streamed in, all of them pointed directly at the blonde. Her hand went up like muscle memory, the pen already hidden away and out of sight. She tossed a wink at Pamela as the guard nearest her grabbed her wrist and pinned it behind her back.

“I see somethin’ I like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Do you need an outlet for all your Harlivy feelings? Do you wish you had online buddies to vent about your gayness with? Do you want all the best fanfic recommendations with fanart and a Margot Robbie simp channel? Then join the new DCU Harley Quinn discord chat!! Here you will find everything you've ever needed in life. Invite link here: https://discord.gg/DkesrYv


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Joan Leland could use my throat as a boot scraper

“So?!” Jason called out eagerly as he ran up to approach when Pamela stepped out of the doors of Arkham that evening. “First inmate break out, day two!”

“Yes,” Pamela grunted. “That was… certainly something.”

“She was my next client,” he continued excitedly — why was he excited? — as he fell in step with her and they made their way towards the staff parking lot. “Isn’t that insane? She was on her way to meet with me and she took out three guards.”

“Yes, well, I can understand her diffidence,” Pamela mumbled under her breath, emotionally exhausted from the day and in no mood to listen to her coworker’s misguided enthusiasm.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m really tired, would it be alright if we skipped drinks tonight?”

“Pamela,” Jason sighed, stopping in his tracks and touching her arm. She succumbed then like she always did, ever the peacekeeper, always trying to keep things civil, and turned towards him like she knew he wanted. His grey eyes searched hers, his face earnest and youthful. This was the man who had infatuated her when she was only a student fresh out of undergrad, back when she still called him Professor.

“Pamela, I’m so close to a breakthrough.”

“Jason.” She had to fight not to roll her eyes — that wouldn’t be very pacific, and since when did Pamela Isley do things like roll her eyes at her mentor? — and boldly took a few more steps into the parking lot. He trotted to keep up with her. “You’ve been going on about this since I was in grad school. I can’t believe you’re still-”

“Because it’s going to work, Pamela,” he interrupted her gruffly, suddenly grabbing her arm and pinching her uncomfortably. Pamela’s heart leaped into her throat as images of an angry father and a petrified childhood flickered through her mind. Jason had found the Achilles heel, the underbelly beneath the chink in her armor. Slipping her eyes shut and breathing in for four counts, she was able to fight off the impending panic attack just barely as his vice grip persisted, unwavering, for another moment or two. By the time he realized the display of aggression, cleared his throat, and pulled his hand away from her, she had already regained composure and opened her eyes.

“Pam, I’m sorry-”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor Woodrue,” she breathed, breaking away and scurrying to her car, leaving Jason alone to wonder what it was he’d said.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The next morning found Dr. Isley in no better a mood, pulling into Arkham Asylum with a stain of hot coffee spilled across the breast of her shirt. She hadn’t had time to change, as she was already running late, and had simply stuffed a blouse into her purse to change into the first chance she got. Her heel had broken on the way out the door (okay, maybe that had been a blessing in disguise seeing as the past two days of power walking through Arkham Asylum had given her three new blisters) so she had had to switch them out for flats. Pamela was always trying to make herself taller, the byproduct of an abusive childhood and an innate fear of the male gender, so the blisters had been a reasonable price to pay in her opinion.

She stepped out of her car (electric, of course), groaning as her wallet tumbled to the ground, cards and IDs scattering across the pavement. She whined in the back of her throat, shutting her car door and turning to the mess she’d made to clean it up. Imagine her surprise to find a familiar face already stooped over it gracefully, picking the cards up two at a time. Pamela smiled gratefully as the stack of cards and wallet were offered to her.

“Dr. Leland,” she nodded cordially (Joan would be reserved for the privacy of their offices, and certainly never where another co-worker could hear them using such relaxed titles).

“Dr. Isley. Rough morning?”

She gestured to Pamela’s shirt, and the redhead blushed.

“Yes, well. Rough night to start.”

Leland nodded in understanding as she turned towards the building, Pamela following in her stride.

“Beautiful women shouldn’t have rough nights. At least, not that kind of rough.”

Pam’s cheeks darkened even further as they hurried up the steps, Leland taking them two at a time and then stopping at the top sheepishly as if remembering not everyone was as genetically blessed in the height department. It wasn’t that Pamela was _short_ —

“Dr. Leland!” a voice shouted as Pamela held the door open for her new friend. Both women’s gazes turned to where the voice had come from and Pamela’s heart plummeted as her eyes fell on Jason running up the steps. He had that tone to his voice — he was angry, pretending to be friendly in public to save face. No one recognized it but her.

“Dr. Woodrue,” Leland smiled, blissfully unaware. Pamela decided she didn’t like sharing Dr. Leland’s smile. “How are you this morning?”

“Doing alright,” Woodrue nodded. “Though I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Pamela flinched. He was blaming her.

The trio filed into the building, checking in at the front desk and walking through the metal detectors. Pamela hardly thought this step was necessary — she’d once heard a story of a lunatic psychiatrist sneaking in a machine gun to one of the inmates. But she let the machine whir around her until she was green-lighted and proceeded down the straight hall that lead to the offices with Jason and Dr. Leland. She was beginning to learn where the other halls lead — the cafeteria, the exercise yard, the recreational rooms (where she was told her her sessions with patients would be moving to once they prepared to move to the greenhouse). But for today, her work was in the second hall of offices down the straight path, and the walk through maximum security was inescapable. Pamela braced herself like she had every time since the first.

“Well, I’ll leave you both to it!” Leland smiled, turning to her office door as the trio passed it. Pamela had forgotten the head psychiatrist worked up here at the front. Her heart sunk into her stomach, but she smiled pleasantly through it.

Apparently not pleasantly enough. Something flickered behind Leland’s intelligent brown eyes, and her demeanor changed.

“Actually, Dr. Isley, why don’t I see you to your office?” She changed tactics. “I want to discuss a new patient with you.”

Pamela’s brows furrowed, but she nodded, glancing to Jason as if she was asking his permission. Correcting herself, she pulled her gaze away from him before she could gauge his reaction.

“Of course, Dr. Leland.”

The walk through max didn’t get easier, but the head psychiatrist was right — Pamela held her chin just a little higher that day. With each new patient she had in her office (granted, she’d only had three so far), with every face that became familiar and less strange, with every time she clicked down this hall in her shiny shoes, the inmates behaved just a little better. When she passed by Victor Zsasz’s cell, he smiled at her in a way that was far less smarmy than it had been only two days ago. At one point she found herself _almost wishing_ that they didn’t keep Croc downstairs so she could see him on her way to work.

_What?_

That wasn’t to say the walk was easy, and certainly there were some lewd gestures and inappropriate shouts of the vulgar nature. But they were lesser — perhaps it was Dr. Leland’s swaggering presence.

Pamela’s heart began to hammer as they neared the cell she most feared. But as they approached the Joker’s quarters, he was nowhere to be seen. Pamela naturally slowed in her pace, brows furrowing.

“He’s not here.”

“The inmates have appointments and extracurricular activities, Dr. Isley,” Leland reminded with a chuckle. “You knew that.”

Pamela opened her mouth to reply, but her eyes suddenly flickered to the cell beside Joker’s, the cell that had been empty every time she’d passed it until now. As she approached the glass wall, curious crystal blues gazed back at her.

“Harley Quinn.”

“Listen, Pam, I gotta get to work,” Jason sighed. “I’m going to just head on to my office, if that’s okay with you?”

Pamela didn’t even turn to look at him, eyes locked on Harley’s.

He grumbled and turned to walk down the hall. Leland watched him go before turning back towards the redhead, who was now only a yard away from Harley’s glass. The blonde had a grin stretched from ear to ear. Leland shuddered — she knew that grin well.

“Hiya, doc,” Harley hummed in a lower voice than she was accustomed to using with the staff at Arkham. She was calmer than she had been when they’d met yesterday, cooler. “How ya been?”

“They didn’t move you to solitary,” Pamela pointed out, confusion lacing her voice. Harley chuckled, breaking the spell as she turned to Leland, who still stood behind Pamela.

“Jesus, Joanie, is this chick green or what? What a fuckin’ riot!”

The redhead felt her cheeks heat up as she opened her mouth to defend herself, but Harley just held up a hand through her giggles.

“Don’t take it personal or nothin’, Red. It’s cute.”

“Red or green, Harley?” Leland asked. “You’re beginning to associate a lot of colors with Dr. Isley.”

“Aw, for chrissake, doc,” Harley whined, turning away from the glass and rolling on the balls of her feet. “It’s barely 9 am, I haven’ even had breakfast yet, let a girl wake up before you start psychoanalyzin’ her!”

“Dr. Isley, perhaps we _should_ give Miss Quinn time to wake up? Shall we?”

“Aw,” Harley pouted, pressing her cheek against the glass. “You’re no fun, Joanie.”

“I wish you’d call me Dr. Leland, Harleen,” she corrected stiffly, but not unkindly. Blue eyes flickered.

“I remember a time when you called me _Dr. Quinzel_.”

Dr. Leland couldn’t explain the heat that sunk into her cheeks, but something shifted as she tore her eyes away from Harley’s unforgiving stare, taking Pamela’s arm in her hand, the same arm as Jason had the night before. Pamela flinched, but relaxed a little into the touch when soft fingertips didn’t dig invasively into her skin.

“Pamela, let’s go.”

The name slipped out thoughtlessly, impulsively, but Harley noticed and picked it up without hesitation. Blue eyes ignited as a smile stretched across her lips.

“First name basis, huh doc?” she called after them after Leland was already dragging Pamela down the hall. “It took you an’ me almost a week!”

Leland didn’t let up her pace as she dragged Pamela towards the end of max, ID brandished and ready before they were even within arm’s reach of the scanner. She unlocked the door and gingerly but firmly pulled Pamela inside, shutting the metal gate and tugging them into the redhead’s office in one fell swoop.

The poor botanist could do nothing but comply, standing awkwardly in her own office as Joan paced around it like a caged animal. Pamela tried a few times to say something, but all she could manage was to open and close her mouth a few times. Finally, Joan turned towards the desk and rested the small of her back against it, palms bracketing herself on the edge of the wooden surface. Finding green eyes staring inquisitively back at her, she sighed.

“This probably looks like an overreaction,” she guessed. Pamela only shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I mentioned before that Harley Quinn used to work here at Arkham as a psychiatrist,” Joan explained with little regard of whether or not Pamela actually wanted to hear this backstory (she did, as a matter of fact). “I told you I inherited her office, which was both true and a little misleading. I worked at Arkham before Harley — _Dr. Quinzel_ — and she signed on as a resident under my tutelage. That office that I’m in now, the one she ended up using before she had herself committed, it was my office before it was hers. Promising psychiatrist, Pam, very promising. She was so damn proud that she’d skipped two grades when she was _ten._ Just out of grad school at twenty-four years old. God, she was just a kid.”

Pamela shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she was supposed to be hearing all this.

“Anyway,” Joan continued, “They gave her to me to groom. I gave her my office and moved upstairs where the heads of departments generally operate. We hit it off, she did good work, always turned in her SOAP notes on time. She was a good kid.”

Joan took in a steadying breath.

“Then she met him. And really that’s all there was to it. She fell in love.”

If Pamela noticed the twinge of hurt in Joan’s voice in her last sentence, she didn’t mention anything.

“I don’t understand,” the redhead frowned. “How did falling in love give her a histrionic personality disorder?”

Joan’s eyebrows raised a little despite herself — this so-called “simple psychology minor” had certainly done her homework before showing up for work. But she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted for too long, leaning further against the desk and tapping against it wearily with her thumbs.

“Pam, The Joker isn’t a man. He’s madness incarnate. He’s a monster. He’s not even really human like you or me.” She looked down and chewed her lip. “Neither is she, not anymore.”

Pamela still had questions about Joan’s relationship with a pre-institutionalized Harleen Quinzel, but she decided to ask the safest one first when she observed the psychiatrist’s chest rising and falling more rapidly than before.

“Why didn’t you stay in your office upstairs? When Dr. Quinzel left your old office empty, why did you move back in?”

Pamela knew before Joan spoke that the answer she offered was a lie.

“I wanted to be close to the inmates again.”

_I wanted to be close to Harley._

“I needed to be there with them in case something went down.”

_The room still smelled like her._

“It just seemed like the smartest idea. Plus, trudging up those stairs every day was exhausting.”

_I miss her._

“But why did they assign her to you once she was committed?” Pamela asked, perhaps (definitely) overstepping. “You two knew each other, you worked together. Closely, it sounds like-”

_Oh very closely indeed-_

“-so why would they assign her to you?”

Joan shrugged.

“I guess they figured after Joker dumped her in that vat of chemicals and killed Harleen Quinzel, the woman that crawled out was a completely different person. Besides, it makes for some fun inside jokes. I didn’t really do a great job showing it earlier, but she and I, we’re friendly. She knows all the tricks of the trade, so our sessions are usually just casual conversations. Almost makes it feel like we’re colleagues again.”

Joan looked out the window and squinted.

“Almost.”

She looked over at Pamela, who was still standing rooted in the same spot as when they’d first entered the office. Joan’s jaw twitched as she pushed off the desk.

“Which is what makes all of this really quite strange,” the psychiatrist concluded finally, circling the desk until she was standing behind it and picking up a file that hadn’t been there when Pamela left the night before. “As you may know, Harley Quinn was assigned under Dr. Woodrue for the gardening therapy program, but she didn’t quite make it to her meeting with him. Just before Dr. Woodrue left Arkham last night, he had a chance to meet with Miss Quinn and he has… decided not to pursue a collaboration with her. He asked her to be reassigned under your care.”

The file was extended towards Pamela, but she didn’t see it. Her eyes were trained on Joan’s, mouth ajar.

“Y- You just told me all of that-”

“Pam.”

“-and you want me to-”

“Pamela.” Joan’s tone was firm. “You knew what you were signing up for when you took this job.”

_Evidently she did not._

“And regardless, you’ll be fine. You’re a beautiful woman, Harley likes beautiful women.”

Pamela blushed at that, finally taking the file, the words “Harleen Quinzel, A.K.A. Harley Quinn, A.K.A. The Cupid of Crime: Classified” glaring at her in red ink.

“You’re losing Crazy Quilt for her,” Joan said with a wink, stepping past Pamela and walking towards the door. “I told them I didn’t think you’d mind too much.”

Joan’s hand found he doorknob, pulling it open. She stopped in the doorway, turning back towards her newest colleague.

“Really, Pam, I think you’re going to be fine. The first meeting’s always the hardest. Just get through that one.”

“And when’s the first meeting?”

Joan glanced at her watch.

“Ten minutes.”

Pamela’s stomach dropped.

“Joan, what do I… god. What do I do?”

Joan offered her a smile that was sympathetic, amused, and melancholic all in one. She shrugged.

“Pray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter starts a little NSFW, you've been warned!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art by the lovely Jaiden!! https://www.instagram.com/p/CCCdP0qg_5F/

When had it come to this?

What choices has she made in her life, what experiences and chance encounters had led her to this moment?

When had she allowed herself to become the kind of person who locked their office door and stepped out of their underwear for a co-worker?

These were the questions Dr. Joan Leland asked herself as her fingers fisted in blonde tresses, encouraging eager lips to travel lower, lower, even lower still.

“Harleen.” The word tumbled from her lips like a prayer. The woman in question hummed.

_I’m listening._

“ _Harleen_.” She was beginning to chant.

“Nuh-uh,” Harleen tsked, raising her lips from Joan’s ribs. The latter whimpered. “You call me Dr. Quinzel here.”

Joan smiled a little ironically.

“Funny, I thought I was supposed to call you Dr. Quinzel _outside_ of the office.”

A quick squeeze of Harleen’s hand on her wrist reminded Joan she wasn’t supposed to speak out of turn. The older woman’s breath hitched and she bit her lip in an attempt to silence herself. Harleen noticed reverently, reaching up with her thumb to stroke the underside of Joan’s jaw, then along the bottom of the offended lip. A pink tongue darted out to chase her finger and Harleen giggled, uncharacteristically childish and gentle. Joan smiled — she loved it when Harleen giggled.

“So beautiful,” the blonde murmured, reaching her hands back down to Joan’s belly, taking the time to trace each individual rib, watching in fascination as the abdominal muscles jumped beneath her touch.

“So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

Joan hummed contentedly, arching into Harleen’s hands, urging her lower. The blonde complied, lips meandering down the line of a taut stomach lazily until—

“Dr. Leland!”

The voice, accompanied by a knock, interrupted Joan from the memory. She jerked, and then a soft blush painted her cheeks, feeling very much like she’ been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Come in,” she croaked, fixing her hair as if she _had_ actually just been laid out on her office couch by her peer.

Dr. Arkham stepped inside the office. Joan’s nose wrinkled as he closed the door behind him — she hated when people came in and closed the door, it meant they had something serious to say.

“Welcome, Dr. Arkham, what can I do for you?” she greeted with remarkable false enthusiasm.

“Dr. Leland,” Dr. Arkham smiled, sitting in the chair generally reserved for patients seated across her desk. “I want to talk to you about Dr. Jason Woodrue.”

She frowned.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

A quick glance at the clock told Pamela she had five minutes to get her affairs in order before Harley Quinn came bursting into her office for their meeting, kicking in the door, no doubt. Suddenly, with a heated blush, she remembered the coffee stain on her shirt and huffed in disdain.

“Come on, Pamela, get it together.”

She grabbed her purse, rifling around until she’d found the spare button-down that had been shoved inside unceremoniously that morning. As she unfolded it and pulled it from the bag, she frowned. It was wrinkled to hell and the corner of the collar was bent upwards unattractively. Rolling her eyes, she decided it was still a better option than a coffee stain, and she quickly pulled the blouse she was wearing over her head.

No sooner has the coffee-stained garment hit the floor did a knock come from the hallway. Just as the redhead was clearing her voice in preparation to ask for one more minute, the door was being pushed open, revealing Dr. Pamela Isley in only her bra and slacks to the guard that had come to present inmate 50078.

Common curtesy would generally indicate that, when walking in one someone half-dressed in their own office, one would apologize profusely and shut the door in an instant. At least, this was what Pamela expected as she yelped and covered her chest with her arms, her fresh shirt dropped on the ground to join the other. But as she stood there, staring bug-eyed, waiting for him to close the door, all the guard could do was drop his jaw and ogle at her.

She knew she was beautiful. She’s always known it. Even with her insecurities and cold upbringing and her impossible-to-please parents, she was honest enough with herself to realize that she was blessed in the aesthetic department. But god, if she hated it when men stared—

“Excuse me,” she squeaked, failing in her attempt to hide her trembling voice. “If you wouldn’t mind—”

“Of course!” he stammered suddenly, turning with a deep red blush and pulling the door shut. Pamela felt air soar back into her lungs as she picked up the discarded shirt and pulled it over her shoulders, buttoning it up with jittery hands. In the hallway, through her rattly door, she could hear the conversation that ensued, clear as day.

“Dude, what happened?”

“I didn’t mean to, Joe, I just… she was changing—”

“Wait.” A woman’s voice interrupted them — Pam knew that voice. “You walked in on her _changin’_?”

A brief silence followed, and Pamela found herself stilling, quirking her ear, listening. The silence was interrupted by the sounds of a sudden scuffling and bodies fighting against each other.

“Hey, lemme go, I just wanna see!” Harley whined, followed by the sounds of grunts from the two guards holding her back. “No fair! Fuckin’ _Mitch_ got to see, and she isn’t even _his doctor_!”

Pamela finished buttoning her blouse, wondered why a smile was quirking at the left corner of her lips, and strode to her door and opened it. The scene that befell her was truly a gem — Harley Quinn had her legs wrapped around one guard’s neck from behind, and her teeth were clamped around the forearm of the second as he tried to pull her off of his peer’s shoulders. All three of them stilled as Pamela stood in the doorframe, their eyes looking up at her sheepishly.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I believe Miss Quinn will be in my care for the next thirty minutes?”

At that, Harley removed her mouth from C.O. Iconis’s arm and hopped down from his partner, smirking at the pair as she strode past them and up to gaze at Pamela.

“Hiya, Red.”

“Harley,” Pamela nodded courteously. “I’d prefer it if in these sessions you continued to refer to me as Dr. Isley.”

“Dr. Isley,” Harley purred, testing it out as if she hadn’t uttered the words to herself twenty times in her cell the night before. “How very.”

“How very what?”

Harley just smiled and strode past her in to the office. Pamela turned back to the guards, C.O. Iconis frowning at her.

“Thirty minutes?”

“We’re supposed to cuff her, Doctor.”

Pamela smiled sweetly, un-ironically.

“I think I can handle Miss Quinn. When we met her wrists were free, I’d like to keep it that way from now on. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

She shut the door and turned back towards the room, where Harley had already made herself comfortable in Pamela’s cushioned office chair. The redhead frowned.

“You’re sitting in my chair.”

“A profound and astute observation, Dr. Isley,” Harley agreed, dropping her Brooklyn accent and adopting a very posh and polished demeanor. Pamela briefly wondered if she was getting a glimpse into the late Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Suddenly those crystal blue eyes bored much more intensely. But Pamela knew from experience that surprise was a sign of weakness — a lion never jumped when approached by a gazelle — and held her ground. A keen intuition told her that she needed to wait for Harley to move first, so she resisted the urge to step further into the room.

“Harleen, for the sake of-”

“My name ain't Harleen.” Discarded lay the mask of Dr. Quinzel.

“Harley. For legal reasons, I cannot allow you to sit behind my desk. There is too much-”

“Technically,” Harley interrupted, “you’re already breakin’ the law by lettin’ me in here without cuffs. So.”

Pamela was growing agitated, but she firmly crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back against her door (it rattled yet again).

“Why do you want to sit in my chair so badly?”

“Wow, Doc, are you sure you ain’t a shrink?”

“Harley-”

“Whatever,” Harley rolled her eyes hard. “Joanie lets me sit in the office chair every other session because it’s ‘an important lesson in how power influences my ability to open up and be honest’.”

“I am not Dr. Leland-”

Harley snorted ironically, though the irony was lost on Pamela.

“-and I am not a psychiatrist. Frankly, I asked them not to cuff you because I assumed it would make you more amicable. I see now that I was wrong. Don’t misunderstand me, Harley, I’m not here for you. I care about your interaction with my program, and that is all.”

Harley couldn’t help but smile a little at the fortuitous confession, eyes glinting wickedly.

“So,” the blonde mused. “The kitty has claws.”

Pamela blinked. Harley only shrug and stood, meandering around the desk towards the uncomfortable metal chair.

“Well, that’s that. Can’t argue with a bonafide— hey, what the fuck are you, anyway?”

Pamela’s eyes narrowed.

“Botanist,” she answered as she pushed off the door and finally strode over to the desk, taking her seat behind it and feeling a little safer with the separation between herself and the madwoman. Harley’s eyes bugged mockingly.

“I think that’s the first improper sentence I’ve heardja speak, like, _ever_.”

“Do you know why you’re here?” the redhead asked in an unapologetic subject change.

“Yeah, Joanie made me.”

Jesus. Didn’t anyone sign up for gardening therapy _without_ a prescription from their psychologist?

“Mhm.” Pamela pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and tented her hands. “But do you know why we’re meeting in my office?”

“I dunno, Red, is it syllabus day?”

“In a sense, I suppose you could call it that. We’re here so I can get to know you, and so you can get to know me, and so I can discuss what you can expect in our private sessions.”

“Ooh, ‘private sessions,’ goody,” Harley emphasized. “Let's start there.”

Pam canted her head to the side.

“I believe I offered an order to that agenda?”

“Jesus H. Christmas,” Harley groaned, her head lolling back dangerously. “D’you talk like this all the time? God, it’s gotta be exhaustin’ isn’it?”

“And yet,” the botanist said to herself, though loud enough for Harley to hear, “I can’t imagine I’ll learn much more about you today.”

“You callin’ me 2D?”

“I’m calling you stand-offish and spoiled, Miss Quinn.”

For the first time, Harley was stunned speechless. Pamela herself was shocked, her lips parting gently in surprise at her own boldness. Stammering, she was quick to reel herself back in.

“I apologize, I… I didn’t-”

“Don’t say sorry,” Harley interrupted. “You were just sayin’ what you were thinkin’. At least now I know you’re gonna be honest with me. Most of the shit sticks here can’t be bothered.”

Pamela nodded, pushing her glasses up again even though they hadn’t moved from when she’d done it just moments ago. Harley noticed quietly.

In fact, Harley noticed everything quietly. When Harley Quinn was born, Harleen Quinzel hadn’t _really_ gone away. The henchwoman jokingly called herself a nesting doll — Harleen was still there, whispering, observing, remembering. So when Pamela ran her hand through her unruly hair, Harley noticed. When she glanced towards the window every few moments, Harley noticed. When she touched those goddamn glasses, you bet your ass Harley noticed. Every tiny tick, Harley filed away. Ammunition.

“I like those glasses,” the blonde pointed out. “They prescription?”

“Wh— of course they’re—”

“Yeah, dumb question, you don’t strike me as the fashionista type. Vain, though, vain as hell.”

It was Pamela’s turn to be taken aback, though offense was quick to replace confusion.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Go ahead, but if you’re gonna, I’d like it if ya did it on your knees.”

Pamela really would have just combusted right then and there if she wasn’t still hurt by Harley’s comment.

“Don’t presume to know me, Miss Quinn.”

“But, oh, Red!” Harley laughed, clapping her hands together and bringing her knees up to her chest. “You been tellin’ me all there is t’know aboutcha in the past five minutes!”

God help her, she pressed on.

“And just what have you learned about me?”

Harley’s posture straightened, her chin lifted into the air, and a little dimple appeared in her cheek as she fought a smug smirk. Pamela saw the med school graduate Joan has praised to firmly just minutes ago.

“You crave approval,” Harley began. “More than anything. You make it seem like you don’t, like you couldn’t give a fuck who gives a shit about you, you may not even know it yourself, but you crave it. Mommy issues? No? No, daddy issues. Ahh… both. Mommy wasn’t home much, never gave you what you wanted, which was — again, approval? Did I get that right? Daddy was— oh hoho, we don’t like that word, do we? _Daddy_ was… shit okay sorry daddy was a sore spot, I’ll move on. Point being we didn’t like daddy. You were a well-rounded child, worked hard, got A’s, and there’s… there’s something… you hid a part of yourself from your family. Either an atheist or a liberal in a religious household that voted for Ronald Regan. Oh both?? Shit, that’s rough. So you craved an outlet. Craved approval as a child, craved an outlet as a young adult. You went to college, where you found your — plants, was it? Plants and… a mentor. So there you had it, your outlet in your degree, and your approval in a mentor. I doubt it lasted, or you would’ve outgrown your need to fidget so much with your appearance, even though you’re absolutely beautiful as it is. Mentor fucked you over, you decided everyone in the world is just like your father, blah blah blah daddy issues extravaganza. I swear to christ, the world would be much easier if fathers went to therapy. So tell me, does any of that ring a bell? A classic misanthrope with abandonment issues who befriends plants to avoid human intimacy. Was it something like that?”

Pam’s fists unclenched and she leaned back in her chair.

“You didn’t leave the ending off of a single word, Miss Quinn.”

Harley glowered.

“ _That_ was your takeaway?”

“If my childhood really was so unbearable, as you seem to have decided,” Pamela continued, “then it’s likely I’m no stranger to dissociation. You’d be hard-pressed to get a rise out of me when I flick on that little switch.”

That was a lie, Pamela wanted to scream and break a clipboard over her patient’s head. But there was truth in her words, she’d gotten very good at flicking a switch on and becoming seemingly insensitive to whatever others had to say.

“You know your psych,” Harley admitted. “You’re no genius, butcha ain’t bad. Coulda been a decent psychiatrist.”

“What,” Pamela snickered, “and end up like you?”

Was that a joke?

“Was that a joke?” the blonde grinned, voicing the redhead’s own thoughts. “Christ on a cracker, I think we had ourselves a breakthrough.”

“As much as I enjoyed your psychoanalysis,” Pam interjected, “I think it’s time I got to know you a little better.”

“Don’t tell me Joanie hasn’t shared all the gooey details,” Harley huffed, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. “I know you two ’re talkin’ about me.”

“Joan-”

No!

“ _Dr. Leland_ has been very helpful in helping me understand my patients as I take them on. Speaking of, what was it you said to my colleague that made him and Dr. Leland decide to reassign you to me?”

Harley shrugged.

“I’m not a fan ‘a men.”

Pamela could understand that.

“Well, ‘cept my Puddin’, a’course,” Harley admitted, her voice suddenly lighter as she glanced to the side almost… bashfully?

“Pudding, like-”

“Joker,” Harley finally said, confirming Pamela’s suspicions at last. “I’m Joker’s girl. Dunno if anyone told ya. I guess you’d haft be pretty dumb to not know it by now, but-”

“And they put you right next to each other?” Pamela interrupted rudely. “Coincidentally?”

“Course not,” Harley frowned. “They did it because Puddin’ told ‘em to.”

“Why would Arkham Asylum do what was asked of them by a madman?”

“Now hold on, plant lady,” Harley grumbled, “I think I could like you, so let’s just get one thing straight about Puddin’. You can’t talk about him like that, ‘cause he’ll find out, and when he does he ain’t gonna-”

“Harley, does Joker have asylum employees on his payroll?”

Harley blinked as if it wasn’t even the kind of question one had to ask.

“I mean… duh?”

“I see.” Pamela frowned. “And is Arkham Asylum often in the practice of making arrangements with its patients?” 

Harley had finally realized she’d said too much. Her mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water, and the noises that she managed to push past her lips were all unrecognizable sputters.

“Interesting,” Pam pondered aloud, turning to scribble something down at last on the legal pad that had sat uselessly before her until now. She frowned, realizing she didn’t have a pen at her disposal. After looking fruitlessly through the drawers and across the desk, she looked up at the sound of incessant clicking. Harley Quinn was smirking, and a pen was in her hand. Pamela frowned. Clearing her throat and leaning forward on her elbows, she quirked a brow at the blonde and waited for her to speak first.

“I still have your pen, pretty girl.”

“That you do,” the redhead agreed. “What do you want for it?”

Harley licked her lips.

“A delectable choice of words, Dr. Isley, but I think I’ll be holding onto this for the time being.”

It was jarring how quickly the woman could hop back and forth between her henchwoman persona to a licensed medical doctor. If her eyes weren’t so damn hypnotic—

It was only hours later, well after the inmate had been dragged back to her cell, as Pamela was walking down the steps of Arkham in the warm summer evening, was she left to wonder where Harley had been keeping that pen the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my good friend for that ADORABLE "pretty girl" line! Also, Harleen and Joan's relationship wrote itself, I cannot take responsibility for that and I will not apologize for it


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm-mmm Pam's growing confidence is my absolute favorite shit to write and it's only gonna get BETTER. You guys may wanna grab some calamine lotion ;)

One week at Arkham Asylum hurried by surprisingly fast. Though the meeting with Harley had been a little jarring, it had prepared Pamela for the rest of her patients, and she felt herself growing more at ease with every day. The walk really was the worst part — the inmates fed off of each other, their crowd mentality chipping away at Pamela’s steely resolve. Seeing each of them alone, one at a time in her office and handcuffed to a chair, she discovered their barks were far worse than their bites.

For the most part.

Pamela knew Joker wouldn’t sign up for gardening therapy, knew that even his therapist could have no sway over his resolution, but the fear was always prickling in the back of her mind. She could always insist Woodrue take on the Clown Prince of Crime should the jester weasel his way into the program, but any chance for him to slither out of his cell just seemed an unnecessary dance with death.

All of this ran through Pamela’s mind as she passed his cell on Friday night, grateful for the weekend and for a break. She had stayed late that night, reading Harley’s file in preparation for their second meeting the following Monday. No other reason.

Ignoring the howling inmates, she scanned out of max and the door slid shut behind her as she breathed in the aroma of stale Arkham halls. It was no lavender breeze, but anything was better than the stench in maximum security.

As she continued down the hallway, something caught her eye. With a frown, she approached Dr. Leland’s office. Light was seeping through the window and the bottom of the door — as head of psychiatry, Joan Leland got the weekends off, only on call in case of an absolute emergency. And yet, here Pamela was, 9 o’clock on a Friday, standing outside the occupied office of her new friend. Raising her fist, she knocked softly.

“Dr. Leland? Are you in there?”

Pamela heard a soft grunt through the door, followed by a shuffling of feet and a hefty sigh before the door was pulled open to reveal the doctor herself. Pamela couldn’t help but smile a little — there was a tiny cowlick of hair just above her ear sticking up rebelliously. As she continued to drink in her coworker’s appearance, however, she realized that was not the only adjustment. Joan’s lab coat and heels were piled carelessly in the corner, her cheeks were flush and rosy, and in her hand was a glass bottle with no cap. Pamela raised a brow.

“Grey Goose?”

Joan smirked and jerked her head, stepping aside to let the redhead in. When the door was safely shut, the psychiatrist padded barefoot to the small couch in the corner of the room and plopped down, patting the spot next to her. Pamela complied and sat down, but consciously left a considerable space between them. The scene was just a little too similar to some of her more unfortunate exploits in college, and she didn’t feel like reliving those painful memories of acting as a lab rat for her fellow drunken peers. As she settled back against the cushions, she noticed the pearly bottle was being extended towards her.

“You wanna drink?” Joan asked, jostling the bottle enticingly.

“I shouldn’t,” was Pam’s self-restrained response. Joan just laughed and rolled her eyes.

“Why not?”

“Should we be drinking together?”

“Pam, neither of us are on the clock. If you don’t like drinking, that’s one thing, I won’t make you. But if you’re just saying no because of the stick shoved up your ass, then I highly recommend pulling it the fuck out and enjoying yourself.”

Pamela swallowed at the swear — clearly, Leland was a loose drunk. Not that the redhead minded, it just was… new. With a shrug, she took the bottle, wrapped her lips around the rim, and threw it back, swallowing a nauseating mouthful. She grimaced, but fought back the gross noise pressing at the back of her throat, and passed the bottle back to the brunette, who was smiling.

“Atta girl, Pam.” She was patting Pamela’s thigh. It wasn’t invasive or unpleasant, just new. This entire experience was very new. “Sorry I don’t have a chaser. Are you a lightweight?”

Pamela offered a side glare, all in good fun, and Joan laughed, setting the bottle down.

“Okay, okay, fine. No more vodka. Listen, I wanted to ask you about how you’re finding yourself. Are you getting settled? Making friends?”

Pamela huffed and tossed her head back against the couch, rolling it side to side.

“Everyone in here is very-”

“Asshole-ian?” Joan offered. Pamela clicked her tongue.

“ _Focused_. People aren’t really here to make friends. Honestly, neither am I.”

Joan nodded, fiddling with the button at the cuff of her button-down.

“Yeah, no one’s really here for the love of helping out their fellow man. But you look like you’re handing yourself okay.”

Pam turned towards her companion.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Joan nodded sluggishly, the movement muddled by the alcohol running through her. “I see it every day, you get just a little more confident. Still mousey as hell, though.”

“Hey!” Pamela whined. “I don’t need _another_ beautiful psychologist passing judgment on me this week.”

Joan’s demeanor changed as interest and — was that jealousy? — flickered through her eyes. She turned her body towards Pamela, propping her head up on her hand and her elbow against the back of the couch.

“I’m torn between being flattered by the backhanded compliment or wondering just how many beautiful psychiatrists have passed judgment on you this week.”

Pamela swallowed, suddenly embarrassed, and unable to identify _why_ exactly. Looking down suddenly and winding her fingers together, she tried to rectify the conversation lamely.

“Just one, but I didn’t-”

“So how are things going with Harley?”

Pamela had hit a nerve. Unknowingly, she had stepped into an ambush and she had no idea how to backtrack out of it, wanting more than anything for a change of subject. She just wished she knew what she had said to ruffle Joan’s feathers, or rather, _why_ what she said had ruffled them at all.

“Good, she’s good. I’ve only spoken with her the one time.”

“That’s not true,” Joan corrected. “You spoke with her in maximum security that one time, and I know for a fact you two had met before that day. So that’s at least three occasions.”

“Why does it matter?” Pamela asked suddenly. She wasn’t sure why she was feeling defensive, but she couldn’t stop the question from escaping her. Rather than upset her companion like she expected it would, though, Joan smiled and leaned back into the couch, satisfied at last.

“See?” the psychiatrist asked, reaching for the bottle at the floor to take another swig. “Monday Morning Pam never would have asked that. But here you are, Friday Night Pam, pushing back when I poke the badger. Might need to buy some new jockey shorts at this rate, I’m sure you’ve gone up a size.”

Pamela wasn’t warmed by the tense compliment. And she didn’t like feeling slighted by this woman, who was her only friend. More than anything, she was confused, and it was frustrating her.

“So,” Joan continued, seemingly past the hitch in conversation, “I’ve noticed you can get a little jumpy sometimes.”

Pam sighed in frustration. Was this really Joan’s way of making amends? Rather than answer, she just shrugged, so Joan continued.

“Oh, alone you’re a star. When it’s just you and me, you’ve got passion, fire, all of that. It’s great, it’s captivating to watch. But whenever we’re around Dr. Woodrue, you-”

“Jason is my friend,” Pamela interrupted aggressively, forgetting briefly the woman across from her was a trained psychiatrist. Leland only nodded — the reaction was just what she’d been expecting.

“Pamela,” she mumbled, sounding surprisingly sober, “you do know you’re more than your connection to Jason Woodrue.”

Pamela started to look down, but a slender finger was hooking under her chin before it could drop and pulling her up to meet sincere brown eyes.

“I mean it.”

The hand was gone before Pamela could mention it, and the redhead just shook her head.

“You don’t understand, Joan, he… it’s not… Jason is amazing. He’s talented, and smart, and charismatic. You've seen him, I know you know what I’m talking about. And he really is all of those things, he’s amazing. But he’s… he isn’t the _best_. As much as he thinks he is, he doesn’t know best. He has this idea-”

“He’s developing a serum to test on inmates,” Joan interrupted. Pamela’s mouth fell open.

“H- How did you-”

“He told Dr. Arkham all about it, asked for permission. Dr. Arkham came to me asking my opinion.”

“And?” Pamela pressed, eager to know herself what the psychiatrist thought of unlawful experimentation.

“I said it was the most horrific, inhumane thing I had ever heard of,” Joan replied, and Pamela eased a little where she sat. “Testing a brand new chemical on unwilling patients? Are you kidding me? _Fuck_ no. I don’t know what Dr. Arkham’s gonna do with my opinion, but I haven’t heard about it since. What’s the serum do, anyway?”

Pamela shrugged.

“I only partially understand it myself. He’s been working on it since I was a grad school freshman in his botany class. It’s supposed to use the regenerative powers of plants to help speed along the healing process. Ideally, it would be used by the military and in hospitals, maybe even someday in standard household first aid kits.”

“Regenerative properties? So, like The Lizard in _The Amazing Spiderman_?”

Pamela suddenly understood why Harleen and Joan had gotten along so well in the past. She offered a small smile to let her know the joke had landed but shook her head soberingly.

“The testing process… it’s dangerous, Joan. We have no idea what the first trial could do to someone.”

“It sounds like this should be put on the back burner until you can find a willing party who completely understands the risks.”

Pamela laughed bitterly.

“If an interested party entirely understood the risks that came with being tested on by this serum, they wouldn’t be willing.”

Joan frowned.

“How do you know that?”

The redhead swallowed, looking across the room, in her lap, anywhere but Joan’s piercing gaze. 

“Pam, he didn’t… he didn’t ask to test on you, did he?”

Pamela set her jaw.

“Yeah, I mean… yes, he did, but of course I said no.”

“And he was okay with that?”

Pamela flinched — evidently he had _not_ been okay with it.

“Pamela, did he-”

“Can we not talk about this, Joan? Please?”

“I need you to tell me exactly what happened in grad school, Pamela. Why are you still working for a man who clearly has no interest in your-”

“Dr. Leland, he is my colleague and mentor and my _friend_ , we have had disagreements in the past, but-”

“ _Dr. Isley_ , if he has used his position of power as leverage over you in the past, if he harmed you in any way, I need to-”

There was nothing logical in the way Pamela leaned across the sofa and attached her lips to Joan Leland’s, but it happened before she could think better of it. She rushed to silence Joan, letting out a little _hmmphf_ as she made contact and her hand landed on the brunette’s forearm. Joan did little by way of reciprocation, more surprised than anything, and the kiss ended almost just as quickly as it had begun.

Pamela couldn’t place the thoughts racing through her mind, but it had shut Joan up, and that was a win in her book. Her heart was hammering in her chest, but not from the kiss. Green eyes opened to discover wide brown ones staring back at her.

“Wh- what was-”

“I’m sorry,” Pamela interrupted hurriedly. “I didn't mean to. I don’t… Joan, I appreciate our friendship, but I’m really not interested in, um… I hope you don’t-”

“Of course!” Joan piled on. “I understand. Emotion running high and… and all that. I get it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pressed.”

Pamela nodded shakily, leaning back on the couch and turning away from Joan. Joan mimicked the motion, and they stared across the room at the desk together. The psychiatrist spoke first.

“We should probably never do that again.”

Pamela nodded, smiling a little.

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, I agree. I’m not looking for anything like that. Keep things professional.”

“Of course,” Joan agreed. “I’m not really interested in dating a coworker again.”

Oh fuck.

Pamela quirked her brow and rolled her head to the side. “Oh? You’ve dated a coworker?”

“Kind of?” Joan tried. “Not… really, technically speaking.”

“Oh!” Pamela thought she understood. “You’ve dated an inmate.”

Damn it damn it damn it.

“…Kind of…”

The gears were turning in Pamela’s head, but Joan couldn’t sit in discomfort long enough for the botanist to figure it out.

“Harleen and I-”

Pamela clapped a hand over her mouth and Joan wanted to jump out of her window already.

“You’re still her therapist after you _dated her_?”

“We were very quiet about it!” Joan insisted. “We knew we’d get in trouble if the asylum found out, and so when they assigned her to me I couldn’t really… I mean, if I said something I’d be fired.”

Pamela wanted to laugh, because that was what friends did when they found out about juicy secrets, so why was there a little unmistakable prickle of jealousy in her chest?

She ignored it, opting instead to chuckle and shake her head, leaning back into the couch and reaching for the bottle in Joan’s lap, not asking. After she tossed back her shot, this one a bit smoother than the one before, she turned to her companion, whose mouth was hanging slightly open in surprise. She hooked her finger under the psychiatrist's mouth and shut it, mirroring the action from before but switching the roles. It was nothing, completely dismissable in another circumstance, but it surprised the both of them, the boldness of the motion which Pamela would have never tried even a week ago. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the kiss, or the file of one Harley Quinn still simmering on the back burner of her mind, but there was courage coursing through her veins that hadn’t been there this morning. And what did she do with said courage?

“So, am I a good kisser?”

Joan only snorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONT WORRY TRUE HARLIVY CONTENT IS JUST ON THE HORIZON HANG IN THERE KIDDOS WE ALL KNOW WHAT THE ENDGAME IS! For those of you who read Fielder's Choice I PROMISE YOU I will not do you dirty this time, I PROMISE. Hope y'all don't still have trust issues from that sjsjsjsjsj I'm so sorry I love you.
> 
> xx Derby


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Any hard-core lezzies!! There is some hetero activity in the beginning of this chapter, fair warning! <3

Harley had learned not to mind 8 o’clocks. At first they had been strange, jarring. Never unpleasant, at least that was what she told herself. She loved having the attention on her, she loved the break from the monotonous routine inside the dull walls of Arkham Asylum. And sometimes, if she did well, _sometimes_ he’d kiss her. That was what Harley loved best.

Apparently, she hadn’t done that well this evening — as she pushed her ass against his hips and reached around to find his lips, he pulled out of her and drew away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before tugging his pants back up to his hips and zipping the fly.

8 o’clocks with the Joker had begun when she was still Dr. Harleen Quinzel. She had locked the door of her office and slid into his lap, his hands still cuffed to the metal chair the inmates were forced into. She’d unzipped his standard-issue pants and run her tongue along him until his eyes rolled back in his head. Then she’d straddled his hips and dropped her panties and rode him until she was a babbling, incoherent mess. That was the only time she’d ever topped. After they’d made a habit of it, he made it clear he hadn’t liked it. In fact, he hadn’t come at all that first time. Every time since had been about him and what he needed, and Harley was forever chasing that release that she’d felt the first time she’d felt him inside her.

When the pair was recaptured after their first escape from Arkham, the Joker negotiated an arrangement with the guards that patrolled max in the evenings — at 8 pm every night, for thirty minutes, Harley was his to do with as he so pleased. It was far from legal, but Arkham administration turned a blind eye, thinking naively that their cooperation with the Joker would protect them from his schemings or somehow delay his inevitable next escape. Neither of which was true, but it was nice to pretend. And Harley, though she hadn’t really been given a choice, was all too willing to slip into his cell, the little light above the door separating their cells mysteriously buzzing green at the same time each evening.

On this particular evening, Joker had lasted seven minutes and fourteen seconds. Harley had taken to counting. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy their time together or that she was bored, she just knew that he preferred her to keep still until he’d finished. She was usually on her hands and knees on the bed, anyway, with nothing to look at besides the stiff cotton blanket covering his straw mattress. She liked best when she was on her back, but he didn’t care for that position much.

“Puddin’?” she mumbled, rolling over so she was sitting on her butt and watching him run his fingers through his green hair. She’d heard the guards and the other therapists describe it as oily and greasy, but she always thought it looked just like her father’s pomade.

“Puddin’…”

“Harley,” he sighed, the muscle in his jaw fluttering as he clenched his teeth. “You know I don’t like to talk right after.”

This was both true and a little misleading. He didn’t like to talk after at all, really. Most of the time after he’d caught his breath, Harley lay curled up in his bed, smelling his sheets while he mumbled to himself and paced back and forth like a caged animal until it was time for her to go back to her cell. Most of their conversations were held long after 8, long after she’d been sealed back in her cell. And they almost always centered around his latest escape plan.

But still, she nodded obediently, laying back onto the bed and curling up in a ball. Fleetingly, he glanced at her and scowled.

“Harley, put your pants back on.”

When he turned back around, she pouted but complied. Shifting on his squeaky bed frame, she couldn’t help the words that tumbled from her lips, surprising her more than him.

“Leland’s got a new plaything.”

Joker grunted. He wasn’t listening. He knew of Harley’s past relationship with Joan, which had been in full effect when the clown couple had first begun their physical relationship. Even so, he didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t “threatened by a _woman_ ,” in his words. So Harley tried again.

“You remember Lelan—”

“Yes, Pooh, I remember. Give me a minute.”

Harley was quiet for only another minute or two, but the silence rapidly began to gnaw at her and she had started to squirm in discomfort. ADHD was a bitch. And the voices, they certainly weren’t helping. So she opened her mouth and the words tumbled from her lips.

“She’s my psychia—”

“For fuck’s sake!” Joker interrupted. “What do you want me to say? Do you want to fuck her again? Fine! You have my permission, I don’t give a rat's ass!”

“No, Puddin’, I-”

“Then _what is it_ , Doll Face?”

Harley was at last speechless. She hadn’t planned on getting this far, she’d really just wanted to keep him talking. Joker rolled his eyes and plopped down on his toilet, leaning his elbows against his knees and looking at her expectantly. She took this as her cue.

“Okay, Harley girl. What’s going on in that big, psycho brain of yours?”

Harley pulled her legs in criss-cross applesauce, just like her ma had taught her when she was just a squirmy little kid. She knew it made her look young and childish, knew this was the best way to appeal to Joker. Folding her hands in her lap, she smiled.

“I started a new program.”

She could see the patience draining from Joker’s eyes, could see him wondering _Jesus Christ, is that all?_ but noticed gratefully that he muscled through it and kept his gaze trained on her, waiting for her to continue.

“The new botanist, name’s Isley. I think Leland’s gotta crush on her. I brought her up in therapy an’-”

“Is this what you wanted to talk about?”

Harley faltered.

“Well, I jus’ thought we could talk about our-”

Joker sighed and stood, and Harley got the message, pressing her lips tightly together. He grumbled to himself, pacing around his cell with his eyes cast downwards, occasionally mumbling or kicking at a cockroach that had scurried in from a crack in the wall. Harley was just about to stand up and slip into her cell early when he turned abruptly to face her head-on.

“Dyke.”

Harley stilled uncomfortably.

“Huh?”

“Dyke, Leland,” he said as if it were obvious. “Leland’s a dyke.”

Harley shrugged.

“Guess so. She sure loved it when I-”

“And this… Doctor Isley,” Joker dragged out the word ‘doctor’ as if he barely believed in her hard-won title, “is she a dyke?”

The blonde’s brows furrowed.

“I- I dunno, Puddin’, I hadn’t really-”

“Awww, c’mon, Harley girl’,” Joker prodded. “Don’t tell me you didn’t try out your singing siren routine on her that night when you almost got out.”

Harley had mentioned meeting Dr. Isley to him, just briefly. She thought he hadn’t heard, but perhaps she had overestimated his ability to tune her out. So she shrugged.

“Kinda sorta. She’s not real confident, blushes a lot.”

Joker nodded. Harley could see the gears turning in his maniacal head. He tapped his foot like he did when an idea was coming and the corners of his lips pulled up to bare his yellow teeth, exposing the grin that launched a thousand police units.

“She’s going to help us escape.”

Harley almost laughed, but she knew better. She was only supposed to laugh at his jokes, and this didn’t seem like a joke at all. But that was fine, she would bite.

“How’dya figure?”

“You’re gonna fuck her, Harls.”

Harley did laugh at this, but one quick flare of his nostrils pulled her back in check. She fought back her grin and grew serious once more, leaning back on her palms.

“You want me t’fuck someone… else?”

“A woman, Harley. It’s not quite the same, is it?”

Harley didn’t answer.

“Once she gets us out, you can drop it. Kill her. I don’t give a fuck, just make her want you.”

“And you… ya want me to… y’know, with clothes off-”

“Whatever,” he answered carelessly with a wave of his hand. “I’ll take care of everything else, I just need you to ensure that Dr. Isley will do anything for you.”

Harley didn’t like this idea. She didn’t want to be with somebody else, she didn’t want to let anyone else between her legs. It felt so cold, so seamless for him to sell her out like this. But if it meant her escape and the start of a lifetime with her Joker, she supposed there really was nothing she wouldn’t do. So she painted a smile on her face and nodded obediently. Good girl.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Pamela jumped when the knock came on Monday morning, the brand new pen that she’d bought herself over the weekend slipping from her fingers and clattering against the wooden desk. Taking in a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and adjusted the pen so that it was parallel to the edge of the great oak.

“Yes?”

The door opened (gradually this time, Pamela noted with a hint of embarrassment and a tiny dash of amusement), and C.O. Iconis poked his head in cautiously.

“Dr. Isley? Harley Quinn here for your morning meeting, are you, uhm… decent?”

Pamela deadpanned.

“I’m ready for Miss Quinn, C.O. Iconis. Send her in.”

He opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside to reveal a smirking Harley with her standard-issue uniform button-up tied off at her ribcage. Pamela swallowed — she could see the contour of lean gymnast’s abs.

“M- Miss Quinn,” Pamela greeted. “Come in.”

“Cuffs or-”

“It’s alright, C.O. Iconis, thank you.”

When Harley grinned smugly and sauntered into the room and the guards made no move to leave, Pamela dipped her chin low.

“That will be all, thank you.”

The pair huffed and bumbled out of the doorway and into the hall, pulling the door shut behind them with one last stern look at Harley. The sound of the latch bolt clicking into place queued the blonde, who glanced at Pamela and smiled.

“Hiya, Doc.”

Pamela nodded and gestured to the chair across from herself.

“Miss Quinn, have a seat.”

Harley pouted a little over-dramatically, her thumbs hooking into her front pockets, and made no move towards the chair.

“So serious.”

Pamela tried to ignore the way the blonde’s bottom lip jutted out. Did she have access to lipgloss somehow?

“There’s a lot to cover today, Miss Quinn-”

“Aw, gee whiz, Doc,” Harley interrupted, dropping her pouty lips and swinging her arms around aimlessly. “Jus’ call me Harley, for fuck’s sake. I haven’t been called ‘miss’ since grad school.”

Ah, yes. Pamela had briefly forgotten she was speaking to an ex-psychiatrist, despite the lifted license to practice. She sighed and fingered the grip of her new pen.

“If I call you Harley, will you sit?”

A blonde eyebrow lifted. Harleen Quinzel peeked through the steely exterior of Harley Quinn.

“Interesting. Is Dr. Isley often in the practice of making arrangements with her patients?”

Pamela was a little startled by her words being thrown back at her, but more than anything she was amazed that Harley had remembered them from their conversation nearly a week ago.

“Why do you do that, Harley?”

Harley smiled softly at the tiny victory.

“Why'd I do what?”

“You slip back and forth between this feral inmate and a groomed psychiatrist. How?”

“It’s cute thatcha think that there’s only two of us in here,” Harley giggled, tapping her temple and smiling in a way that looked more of an awful lot like an animal baring its teeth than a person cracking a joke. “Anyway, you ain’t my therapist, I already had my early mornin’ session with Joanie. And boy, did I learn a lot from _her_.”

Pamela decided to let that comment slide, instead focusing on the current task at hand.

“ _Harley._ ”

Harley would never admit to the way her stomach flip-flopped over the look Dr. Isley gave her, peering over the rim of her glasses and pointing with her pen towards the chair across from her. She brushed it off and shrugged, stepping towards the chair and clenching her belly as tightly as she could without making it obvious that she couldn’t breathe. Flopping down, she grimaced.

“Hey, Doc-”

“Dr. Isley-”

“ _Doc_ , while you’re makin’ exceptions for me an’ all that, d’you think you could figure a way for them to get me a comfier chair? This one really digs inta the backbones, y’know?”

“Miss Quinn-“

“Uh-uh,” Harley corrected, raising a finger and pointing it the botanist. “We made a deal.”

“Harley,” Pamela sighed, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. It wasn’t that hard, she worked with men all day long. “Why don’t we refocus on the task at hand.”

“New pen,” Harley mumbled, glancing down to the black and gold-trimmed fountain pen that the redhead was rolling between her fingertips. “I like that one. Wanna trade?”

There was a moment when Pamela thought she was going to tear her hair from her head and slam her fists upon the desk, but then a thought was occurring to her, one that sobered and almost saddened her.

“Harley,” she proceeded gingerly, waiting to continue until Harley’s gaze found hers. “Do… do the doctors here have you on anything for your ADHD?”

Harley snickered, and that answered that. Pamela jotted something down on her notepad before passing the pen across the desk and extending it towards Harley. Blue eyes fell to the writing utensil, then flickered up to meet green ones. Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip.

“I need this back by the end of our session,” Pamela instructed as Harley reached for it. Harley smiled and took it, fingers immediately exploring the new device hungrily. But her eyes stayed on Pamela’s, the twinkle in them burning a little brighter. Pamela nearly returned the smile.

“So,” the botanist sighed, adjusting the already perfect stack of files at the corner of her desk just so she had something to do other than stare at Harley. “What do you think you might like to grow?”

“Grow?” Harley repeated, twisting the base of the pen loose and then tightening it again. “Wha’dya mean?”

“We start in the greenhouse next week,” Pamela reminded her. “You’ll start off watching me as I give instruction, but I’d like to have everyone planting new seeds by the end of the week, and I thought it might be fun if I let you choose your plant.”

Harley laughed and swung one leg over the arm of her metal chair. Pamela turned her nose up at the unrefined position.

“Shit, that’s easy. Catnip for sure!”

Pamela smiled, pulling out another pen from seemingly nowhere ( _just like that, wham-o!_ ) and jotting down a word or two on the file before her. She spoke as she wrote.

“Do you have a cat at home, Miss Qui— _Harley_?”

Harled smirked.

“Naw, not really. Just like to please the pussy.”

The joke wasn’t lost on Pamela, she just needed to pretend she hadn’t gotten it. Because for the first time, though it had been happening since Harley stepped in her office for the first time last week, she realized that Harley Quinn, a patient at Arkham Asylum, was flirting with her. So she allowed herself to blush downwards as she glued her eyes to the paper she wrote on and pretending to make a mistake so she could avoid eye contact for as long as possible. When she looked up, Harley’s bottom lip was pulled between her teeth, and for the first time, Pamela realized how very attractive the woman across from her was.

“Catnip.”

Harley nodded.

“Okay.”

Pamela hoped Harley hadn’t noticed the small crack in her shaky voice, but if the way those blue eyes glistened was any indication, Harley hadn’t only noticed — she relished. Pamela lunged for the coffee mug beside her and took a sip in a vain attempt to defuse the tension.

“So, I heardja kissed my therapist.”

Pamela Isley would sooner die than allow herself a spit-take, so when she felt herself choking up her coffee, rather than let it spew past her lips, she inhaled it. Now, instead of spraying Harley with spit and caffeine, she found herself hawking it up in her office chair in front of a patient. So really, which was worse?

“Shit!” Harley yelped, shooting straight up in her chair. “Y’aright?”

“Just — give me a s — second,” Pamela grunted through hacks, holding a hand up until her shoulders stopped shaking. Gasping for breath, she eyed Harley dangerously as she reached for her coffee mug and took another careful sip to soothe her aching throat. When she could breathe again, she folded her hands and rested her forehead against them, letting her eyes slip shut.

“She told you.”

“Nahh,” Harley corrected. “I jus’ kinda sorta figured it out.”

“How?” Pamela demanded, her eyes flashing open and fists thumping to the desk. Harley only rolled her eyes.

“Please, it’s obvious. She’s way into you, and you’re totally into her.”  
“That’s not… entirely true,” Pamela mumbled under her breath.

“But it is a little true?” Harley pressed leaning forward across the desk. There was mischief in her eyes. “You gotta crush on the pretty doctor?”

“How do you know all this?” Pamela grumbled, leaning further away in her chair as Harley inched closer across the desk. “How do you-”

“The fact that you blushed this mornin’ when the two of you ran inta each other outside’a my cell on your way through max? The way you underlined her name in your calendar three times in red pen? The way you can’t hold eye contact with me right now?”

Pamela looked up deliberately at that last one, a frown occupying her lips. Harley took mercy.

“Also yeah, she told me.”

Pamela huffed. So much for coworker camaraderie.

“You know,” the redhead grumbled, “it’s interesting that your _therapist_ is so open and honest with you. It’s almost as if you knew her before she became your doctor.”

Harley’s eyes narrowed dangerously. It was a new expression, it reminded Pamela that she was speaking with a murderer.

“Everyone knows I worked under Dr. Leland when I was employed here.”

“Indeed,” Pamela confirmed with a nod. “Under, and perhaps on top of as well?”

“Careful, little girl,” Harley growled, and holy hell did it make Pamela’s stomach sink. “You’re no stranger to inappropriate workplace relationships, yourself.”

Despite the hairs raising on the back of her neck, Pamela proceeded.

“Did Leland tell you that, too?”

“She didn’t have to.”

This was not the light-hearted jokester Pamela had met on her first day. This woman was a dangerous, manipulative criminal, and the botanist was suddenly wishing she’d let the guards cuff her, after all. Harley spoke without giving Pamela the chance.

“So tell me about Jason Woodrue.”

“Inappropriate,” Pamela immediately pounced. “Dr. Woodrue and I are coworkers. And we are not here to talk about me, Miss Quinn, we are here to discuss you.”

“It’s Harley.”

“I think it’d be in everyone’s best interest if I continued to refer to you as Miss Quinn, and if you would humor me and call me Dr. Isley.”

“See, no, you can’t do that if you want inmates to respect you,” Harley pointed out. “Say shit like ‘humor me,’ it’s not gonna get anyone to do whatcha want. You gotta be assertive. Be dominant.”

The tip of the pen found a home between Harley’s lips as she worried it between her perfect, shining white teeth. Pamela had often wondered (secretly and late at night while pouring over the pair’s mugshots) why, if the Joker and Harley had been turned in the same vat of acid, why his teeth were stained and hers remained untouched.

"Can you be dominant, Dr. Isley?”

Pamela was confused. Harley Quinn was dangerous, and Pamela had just offended her, crossed a line. So why was the way the madwoman said her name, the name Pamela had requested to be called, clouding her head helplessly?

“Right,” Pamela mumbled. “Something to work on, I suppose. No more asking after Dr. Woodrue, is that clear?”

Harley smiled, leaning back over the desk and extending the pen towards the botanist.

“Yes, ma’am. See? Was that so hard?”

Pamela reached for the pen, but the blonde pulled it away at the last minute, biting it between her teeth like a dancer in a tango and folding her hands below her chest. And if Pamela accidentally looked down at the suddenly accentuated cleavage of one Harley Quinn, well, it could hardly be considered her fault. After all, the uniform button-up was unbuttoned far enough that Pamela could just make out a lacy bra.

It was this same lacy bra that Pamela would dream about late that night in her queen-size, Harley’s name heavy on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, university kicking my ass again! I hope to have another chapter up soon to make up for it <3
> 
> xx Derby


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pam’s inner dialogue during this first scene: https://open.spotify.com/track/6eSr19MjbCYr01r1Eqbsfu?si=u7Fz08Y7T7WEL6YIwv9NGw

Pamela was breathless when she woke up the following morning, her heart thudding in her chest and her sheets damp with sweat. Shifting shakily on tight muscles, the memory of the dream she’d had began fluttering back to her in fleeting, jumbled flashes. They were discombobulated and haphazard, much like the subject of the dream itself — piercing blue eyes, a familiar lace bra. She was still half asleep when she finally registered what had happened, realization dawning on her and jerking her awake in a way that no amount of espresso could ever parallel.

Pamela Isley had little first-hand experience in the way of sex dreams, she’d always been so wholly focused on her work, so terrified of the judgment of parents she could never please. Sex was shameful, that’s what she’d been taught. It was a secretive topic, something that her peers growing up had idolized and looked forward to while she had dreaded and delayed it. Things had changed a little when she’d left home, started college, had a woman for the first time, but the emancipation didn’t last. She was never available, a slave to her work (though this was no downside to her), and of course, with grad school came the introduction of Professor Woodrue.

And, oh, there it was, like a magic spell. The image of his face flashed through her mind and the allure and excitement of the morning vanished, stopping on a dime. Distasteful and invasive as the thought was, she was grateful for the intrusion — it at least allowed her to come to her senses and twist out of her rumpled sheets.

With a sigh, her bare feet hit the wood floor of her tiny studio apartment. Cardboard boxes were still stacked in corners, and she had a feeling they would be for a long time to come. She’d only just moved in, her new Arkham Asylum salary allowing her to move to the nicer side of town where she could be closer to her work. It was funny, she’d often thought to herself — she was spending $300 more each month for 20 square feet less. But it was chic, and furnished, and only about a ten-minute drive from the Asylum. So she had packed her bags and moved across Gotham City to a part of town where she could at least check her respective box in the mailroom without feeling the need to carry pepper spray on her.

She began to strip the bed, wadding the sheets up in her hands before giving up halfway and dropping them to the mattress. She’d get them later, fine, whatever. She hadn’t accounted for this early-morning setback in her schedule, and she needed to leave her apartment in half an hour if she wanted to arrive at work on-time.

Pamela left the sheets on the bed and set to work padding around her apartment with a watering can in one hand and a spray bottle in the other, tending to the wide variety of plants she had somehow managed to keep alive in the ridiculous conditions of smog-filled Gotham. She worked quickly, efficiently, but with a tenderness in her fingers that she swore up and down was to thank for her success as a botanist. It was a tenderness Professor Woodrue himself had never been able to match, and in the early years of their partnership, she would often affront him by succeeding where he failed. He was a genius with the logistical side of things, the formulas and written documentation, but his rough hands were invasive and crippling.

Pamela swallowed the lump in her throat.

Her phone buzzed, and, glancing at the caller ID, her heart skipped a beat. It was as if her meditating on Woodrue had manifested itself, because there his name was, flashing up at her as the phone vibrated on her tiny kitchenette island.

“Hello?” she asked in as gentle a voice she could muster once the device was against her ear. She stroked the leaves of her Bird of Paradise.

“Pamela?”

“Who else?” she attempted at a joke. He was in a good mood, she could tell through the phone, and she liked to milk these moments for as long as possible.

“Pam,” he said hurriedly. She could hear he was powering through the city, the distant sound of horns and chatter filling the empty spaces between his words. “He said yes.”

Maybe her brain was still foggy, Pamela thought, foggy from sleep and foggy from _her_. Running a hand through her thick hair, she pinched the bridge of her nose but forced enthusiasm into her voice.

“Who said yes? To what?”

“Dr. Arkham said yes to Project Floron.”

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

“Harley,” Joan smiled from her desk as Harley was lead into the room. C.O. Iconis cuffed her to the chair while the blonde smiled sweetly at him.

“Thanks, Mitch-bitch,” she giggled. The C.O. grumbled before nodding to Joan and stepping out of the room. Harley turned to her psychiatrist with a playful grin.

“Joanie.”

“Harls.” Joan was smiling despite herself. She already had a feeling of what was to come in today’s therapy session.

“How ya been?”

“You mean since I saw you yesterday?” the therapist laughed. “Just great. Heard _you_ got into a little trouble, though.”

Harley was gracious enough to look sheepish.

“Word really do get around, huh?"

“Mhm.” Joan tapped her fingers against her desk. “But you know, it’s the funniest thing. When I talked with Dr. Isley last night, she said that I told you about the kiss. The kiss between Dr. Isley and I, that is.”

Harley shrugged. _Okay. And?_

“It’s _funny_ ,” Joan continued, “because I don’t remember telling you about any kiss at all in yesterday’s session.”

Harley grinned from ear to ear.

“Pammy _mighta_ been hard to read if you hadn’t been so glarin’ly fuckin’ obvious yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me, Harley?” Joan asked, more serious now. “Dr. Isley thought I threw her under the bus by telling you.”

“Joanie, she was aboutta shit her granny panties. I hadda give her an out. She wasn’t gonna cope if I told her I could just see it written all over you two’s fuckin’ faces.”

Joan chuckled to herself, leaning back in her office chair and folding her hands.

“So.” A smile. “The truth is out.”

“Am I spose’da be jealous?” the blonde wondered.

“Only if you still want to fuck me.”

Harley winked.

“I’ll always wanna fuck ya, Doc.”

Joan felt a pang in her heart. Harley wasn’t stupid, the knew that the psychiatrist had had a hard time letting go of Harleen. Joan Leland hadn’t been in it for the sex — she had been in love. But showing weakness around Harley Quinn was like bleeding in the same pool as a great white shark.

“Right,” the brunette grunted. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that there’s nothing going on between Pam and I.”

She’d let ‘Pam’ slip again, and Harley’s eyes glinted.

“But you want there to be,” the blonde affirmed. It wasn’t a question.

“She’s beautiful,” was all Joan said. “It would be inappropriate.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” Harley reminded.

“I haven’t forgotten, Harleen,” Joan snapped. Harley’s face fell and Joan realized her mistake. “Sorry. Harley. How’s Joker?”

“I wanna talk about Pam.”

“You _don’t_ want to talk about Joker?” Joan clarified. “In what kind of world-”

“He’s great, Joanie. So Pam likes women?”

"She kissed me, so,” Joan replied casually. “Joker?”

“Oh, my god!” Harley’s wrists wiggled against her restraints, she would have clapped her hands together if they weren’t bound. “ _She_ kissed _you_? So she’s a top!”

“I doubt that very much,” Joan said into her coffee mug as she took a sip before turning beat red at the confession.

“Aw, boohoo.” Harley was pouting.

“Harley, why this sudden interest in Dr. Isley?”

“I’m not inter’sted in Dr. Isley.”

“Harley.”

Joan was giving her _that look_ , and for just a second, she was Dr. Harleen Quinzel again, confronted by her superior about a misplaced file or going overtime with a patient. She hated moments like these, hated remembering who she was before the acid.

“Joan, don’t… don’t look at me like that.”

Harley wasn’t the only one of the pair who could read the other like a book. Joan was going to figure it out if the blonde didn’t say something. It was just a matter of time.

“Harley,” Joan repeated. “I love you, you know I do. The list of things I wouldn’t do for you is very, very short. But on that list is busting you out of Arkham. And Pamela Isley is not going to do it for you, either.”

“First of all,” Harley scoffed, “the list a’things you would’t do for me is long as fuck, or I wouldn’t be sittin’ here cuffed to a chair. Second, how d’you know I even _want_ her to bust me out? And third! I mean… I d’know, I feel like she maybe would…”

Harley’s voice trailed off at the end of her sentence as she tapped her toes together, and Joan had to suppress a laugh, fixing her stern gaze on Harley.

“You’re an enigma, Quinn.”

Harley smiled and tilted her chin proudly into the air.

“I know it. So, you think I got a shot with Isley?”

“She’s… you— Harley, you’re in a relationship.”

“Pfft, Puddin’ don’t mind.”

“He should.”

Harley wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, so she just barreled on.

“Would you date her? If you weren't still in love with me, a’course.”

Joan rolled her eyes.

“I’m not _in_ love with you, Harley, I just love you. I care about you a lot.”

“You’re deflecting.”

There she was again. Joan could just make out her Harleen.

“I guess,” the psychiatrist replied. “I’d probably date her if she were interested in me. But it’d end in heartbreak, you know, it always does. Look at you. Dumped into a vat of chemical waste by some pyscho.”

“Hey,” Harley glared. “I was in love with him before I became Harley Quinn.”

“No,” Joan said sadly. “I don’t think you were. He brainwashed you, honey.”

Harley tensed at the pet name, but didn’t correct it. It was an accident, she understood that.

“So,” the blonde pushed on, determined to redirect the conversation back to Pamela Isley, “you wouldn’t date her. Final verdict.”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Harls. Probably not, given my romantic track record. With my luck she’d end up getting struck by lightning or bitten by a radioactive spider and becoming Gotham’s Next Top Metahuman.”

Harley snickered. Joan could really come up with the wildest shit sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby chapter today, but I hope to update again soon! I'm currently in the process of moving, so the next eight-ish days I'll be hard-pressed to find time to write. But things are starting to heat up between our girls, so stay tuned for the Harlivy content I know you're all here for!!! Also, Project Floron is a go... you know what that means!!!!!!!!! I spy with my little eye a Poison Ivy on the horizon......
> 
> xx Derby


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey it's time for gay!

The night before their first day in the greenhouse felt… weird. It felt like the time in the third grade when Mrs. Able took the class on a field trip to the zoo and Harley had laid out her entire outfit beside her bed, packed her bag and lunchbox, and curled up on top of the covers, too excited to sleep.

She knew she was in the same group as Zsasz and Killer Croc. She wasn’t looking forward to working alongside a bloodthirsty, razor-toothed carnivore, but at least she was going to get to see Croc again. And of course, there was the allure of “Outside."

Harley hadn’t been allowed outside the walls of Arkham Asylum since she was checked in, not after she’d assisted Joker in his escape back when she had been employed. Both of them were condemned to walk the fluorescent halls of Gotham without any outside exposure. Harley liked to make jokes about how the sun would just ruin her complexion, anyway, and at this point she was white enough she could glow in the dark, but the truth was she was ecstatic. It was one of the things she missed the most. She didn’t like it when Joan reminded her of what it felt like to be Harleen, but a gentle reminder of how it felt to be human? To be normal? She’d be lying if she said it didn’t make her heart flutter.

“You remember what you’re going to do?” Joker asked from the other side of the glass, stirring her form her thoughts. He was sitting on his bed rigidly, watching her think as she curled into herself on her own sheets.

“‘Course, Puddin’,” was the response thrown over her shoulder before she turned back towards the opposite wall, studying the grainy concrete. She was glad that this wall wasn’t glass, too — Two-Face lived in that cell, and looking at him gave her the heebie jeebies.

She inhaled sharply, rolling her secret pen between her fingers.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Pamela knocked on the open door leading into Joan’s office the following morning, leaning on the doorframe (she hoped it would make her look cool and distract from the fact that she was so close to pissing herself). Joan glanced up and smiled, setting her pencil down.

“Big day today,” the brunette cheered, pumping a fist halfway up into the air.

“Mhm,” was Pam’s pinched reply. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, big day.”

Sympathy flickered through Joan’s features.

“You’re nervous?”

“What? No, I’m not nerv— _I’m not_ nervous. Mm-mm.”

Joan gave her a knowing look.

“What, are you worried you’ll forget how to plant a tulip?”

“Of course not,” Pam mumbled nearly to herself with a roll of her eyes, missing the sarcasm.

“Concerned your precious gardening therapy idea won’t work?”

“Come on. It’ll work. Who doesn’t like plants?”

“Scared you’ll knock a pot over and an inmate will use one of the shards to stab you in the jugular seventeen times before a guard can pry them off of you?”

“Well, I _hadn’t been_ , but-”

“You’re worried about Harley.”

“I’m worried about Harley.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Joan!” Pam cried. “She’s insane!”

“Pamela,” Joan responded, her eyes suddenly serious and her voice dropping low. “You forget where you are employed.”

Pamela remembered suddenly that the door was wide open and looked out into the hall to make sure no one had heard her. With a sigh of relief, she turned back to Joan.

“I’m sorry. She just makes me nervous. The other inmates here, they’re dangerous. They could slice me up eight ways to Sunday and feed me to… oh god, the crocodiles, for lack of better species. But Harley—”

“Could also do that,” Joan reminded.

“Yes!” Pam agreed. “But she’s also a psychiatrist.”

“Ex.”

“Yes, I know she’s your ex.”

“Pamela Isley-”

“What if she engages in psychological warfare?” the redhead insisted.

“She will.”

“Joan!”

“Pamela!”

“Argh!” Pamela groaned exasperatedly, throwing her hands up into the air as she pushed into the room and flopped down on the seat across from Joan. It was cushy and soft, not like the one in the botanist’s own office. Joan smiled gently and chanced a reach across the desk, resting her hand on top of the redhead’s. It was chaste and supportive, Pamela could feel the intention behind it.

“Pam,” the brunette encouraged softly. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

Oh, that Pamela had the same faith in herself.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

She wasn’t entirely surprised when the pushed the door of the greenhouse open to discover nothing but a pile of four by fours, three sacks of soil, and two large ceramic pots. The greenhouse was brand new, not a month old, and yet it still had a grimy, unsettling aura that Pamela couldn’t wait to remedy. Jason was already there, standing with his hands on his hips, wincing as he stared fixedly at the nearly useless pile of supplies they'd been saddled with. He looked up when he heard the door open, though, and grinned, every one of his white teeth bared and shining. He was smiling with his eyes.

“How’s my favorite coworker?”

“Technically, I’m your only real coworker,” Pam pointed out, stepping close enough to him to be polite. “You’re here early.”

“So are you.”

“Congratulations on Project Floron,” the redhead complimented, trying her best to keep her mouth from drawing too tight a line. “You must be so proud.”

“You know what, Pam?” he grinned. “I am. And you should be, too. Partner.”

Pamela had never agreed to be a partner on the project, that role had been assigned to her without discussion. She had known this before, but a small part of her had hoped Jason’s ambition and jealous nature would take over and he would choose to continue on solo.

“Listen, Jason, about that—”

“Pam,” he interrupted. “Don’t worry, when I win the Nobel Prize I’ll be sure to give you a shoutout in the acceptance speech.”

“I was just wondering,” she continued, wavering only slightly, “you don’t really need me, do you? What could I bring to the table that you couldn’t yourself? Adding in a second party, that just complicates things. Financially, legally, just consider the paperwork alone.”

“What paperwork?”

Oh god, this was so illegal.

“Arkham… didn’t ask for any documentation?” Pam prodded.

“As far as the documented world knows, Project Floron doesn’t exist.”

They were going to jail. Or they’d be committed to Arkham Asylum themselves. And she couldn’t refuse him now, because… she just couldn’t do that again. She didn’t have it in her. But how could she sit back and allow the destruction of plant kind and the wrongful torturing of helpless inmates? Heaven knew her moral compass wasn’t broad, hardly even extending into mankind at all, but god, she wasn’t a _monster_.

“You’ve got your thinking face on,” Jason murmured, gradually closing the space between them until he was only a foot away. Pamela could tell he intended for his pace to come off as cautious and gentle, but it seemed much more like a predator cornering its prey.

“Just… a lot to think about. Excited.” She was lying by the skin of her teeth.

“I know.” He reached out and touched a strand of her hair, pushing it back behind her ear. “But you know I’ll take care of you. I always have.”

That was the biggest lie yet.

“You’re beautiful, Pamela."

She set her jaw and cemented each muscle in her body, willing herself not to jerk away. She wasn’t a scared med student anymore, gone was the jittery young girl craving nothing but approval. She was a doctor, she was a woman. He didn’t have that power over her anymore.

“Jason…”

“Knock, knock!”

Pamela had never been so glad to hear that shrill, piercing voice as Harley Quinn all but kicked down the door of the greenhouse. Her guards were holding either of her arms, looking exasperated. Pamela wondered if these two men’s only job was to watch the insane harlequin -- she’d never seen them interact with another inmate.

Jason stepped away from Pamela as the trio advanced into the room, Harley’s curious eyes searching the new space hungrily. Pamela could tell the woman’s mind was racing a mile a minute, taking in new information rapidly. She could empathize — months wondering identical monotonous halls could make any new place exciting. And yet, Pamela felt the need to apologize.

“It’s going to be much prettier,” the redhead spoke up, and her heart fluttered nervously when Harley’s eyes fell to hers. The last time she’d seen those eyes, they’d been looking up at her from between her legs in a flustering dream. She swallowed.

“I’m going to fix it up. It’s going to be beautiful.”

“It’s already beautiful.” Harley was looking straight at her. Pamela willed the heated flush prickling at her cheeks to subside.

“I wouldn’t take you as the punctual type, Miss Quinn, and certainly not an early bird,” Jason spoke up, breaking the trance. Pamela had almost forgotten him, and was surprised to find herself angry that he was addressing _her_ patient.

“She didn’t give us much of a choice,” C.O. Conners responded, his eyes tired. Pamela felt a flicker of sympathy, but more than anything she was amused.

“Cuffs, please, C.O. Iconis,” the redhead reminded, indicating towards Harley with her eyes.

“Pamela,” Jason intervened. “You can’t believe that’s a safe-”

“This is a group setting, Dr. Isley,” C.O. Iconis warned. “I’m not sure—”

“Gentleman.” Pamela’s voice was crisp and curt. “This is a gardening therapy program. I don’t just want Miss Quinn uncuffed, I expect every inmate to be. How else can they learn?”

Jason’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed uncertainly, but the C.O.s were already uncuffing Harley, who stuck her tongue out at Jason. No sooner had her tongue slipped back into her mouth, she winked at the redhead.

A fast-paced nervous excitement coursed through Pamela as Croc, Zsasz, Crazy Quilt, Scarecrow, and Calendarman all showed up, or as Harley was referring to their ragtag group, the Guinea Pigs. Pamela and Jason had split off onto opposite sides of the greenhouse, Jason choosing to go over photosynthesis first with his three patients. Pamela knew this was going to be a huge turn-off — the patients were already falling asleep as he used lame gesticulation to try to keep their attention with a lecture. She knew what would get her group excited — and if she had maybe designed the first lesson to cater specifically to Harley’s ADHD, well, that would have been a complete coincidence.

She had the patients pouring soil into one of the large pots, small hills at a time, and patting it down densely while she explained the process of repotting a rose bush, which she had brought with her and set by the door (Harley had narrowly missed it when she’d come barreling in earlier).

Harley was fascinated by the manner in which Pamela handled the tiny rose bush. It was just a sapling, the botanist holding it with extreme caution and gently stroking its leaves as if she thought it could feel the ministrations, like it was somehow sentient. And maybe it _was_ sentient, was that such a crazy concept? Harley could think of nuttier things.

“Harley, would you come here, please?”

The blond smiled. Croc had held the bag of soil, Zsasz had done the patting — at last, it was her turn with teacher. Bounding up to the metal table the pot was situated on, Harley held her hands up and wiggled her fingers eagerly.

“Where’d’ya want ‘em, Doc?”

_Don’t blush don’t blush don’t blush_

“I need you to use your fingers to gently separate the soil and create a hole about three inches deep, can you do that?”

Harley smiled, already setting to work, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she focused intently on the task at hand. Pamela allowed a glance in Woodrue’s direction — Calendarman was using the corner of Crazy Quilt’s billowy, oversized uniform pants as a pillow, and Zsasz was drooling. Jason either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Her attention came crashing back to her immediate circle as Harley’s fingers brushed against her own.

“Is that okay?” the blonde wondered. It took the redhead a moment to realize she was asking about her work on the soil.

“Perfect, Harley, that’s perfect.”

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t nearly perfect. Why did she say it was perfect? But the lie was rewarded with the most dazzling smile she’d ever seen. Pamela had a feeling she’d be lying a lot to Harley in the coming weeks if it meant she’d be smiling like that. And anyway, she could always mend where Harley failed.

Pamela was so distracted by the sparkling blue eyes and dazzling grin that she almost didn’t feel it when the tip of a thorn dug into her index finger. Quite nearly. In fact, had it not been for her knee-jerk reaction to yank her hand away, she might not have realized it had happened at all. But then Harley was breaking eye contact and looking down at the offended finger, her eyes widening when she saw the prick of blood.

“Shit, Doc, you’re bleedin’!”

“Oh.” Pam sounded almost surprised. “I guess I am. It’s okay, it happens someti-”

Her brain short-circuited. Harley put the tip of the injured finger in her mouth and began to suck.

It wasn’t hygienic, it wasn’t kosher, it wasn’t allowed at Arkham, and it wasn’t nearly how one should begin to treat a prick from a rose bush. But Pamela literally couldn’t say a goddamn thing. She opened her mouth and tried, certainly, vaguely aware of the small group of guards standing in the corner, of Jason, of the other patients (two of whom were watching the interaction intently, wondering if this was a part of the demonstration), but she couldn’t move.

“Um.”

Harley looked up and Pamela thought she felt the swipe of a hot tongue ghost against the pad of her finger.

“HHHHarley…”

“There.” Harley released Pamela’s finger with a little pop and smiled at her handiwork. “That’ll do it. You really oughtta be more careful, Doc, there’s only so many fingers ya got.”

Harley turned on her heel and rejoined Croc and Zsasz, neither of which looked nearly as shocked as Pamela felt, mouth still hanging open. Hurriedly, she wiped her finger against her white lab coat and glanced up to find Jason’s eyes on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woodrue a trick ass bitch.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends. I apologize for the hiatus. Life went to shit but then it got really awesome and I’ve just been so busy. But I have missed you and not forgotten this fic! Please accept my sincerest apologies and know I love you all so very much <3

Pamela could hear Jason stomping around in his office next door. She winced at what sounded like a book being thrown against the wall and found herself grateful (for the first time) for Dr. Arkham’s presence in her room. As he sat across from her, babbling on aimlessly, she tried to keep her shaking hands beneath her desk and willed herself not to jump in her seat when she heard Jason grunt under his breath from the other side of the wall.

“—a complete success,” Dr. Arkham carried on. “I can’t wait to see what you do next. And as for Project Floron-”

“Oh, no,” Pam interrupted politely. “I’m not involved with Project Floron. That’s… that’s Jason’s. Dr. Woodrue’s, I mean.”

“Oh, Dr. Isley,” Dr. Arkham chuckled. “Don’t be so modest. Dr. Woodrue made sure I knew how heavily you endorse the project. You have my full support. And between you and me,” he lowered his voice and leaned closer across the desk, and Pamela could feel herself straining to sink further into her chair, “I can’t wait to see what kind of wonders you perform on the patients.”

Pamela felt her heart hammer in her chest as he stood and offered some sort of farewell and left the room, shutting the rattling door behind him in his wake. Her head fell into her shaking hands and she let out a flustered sob, careful to make sure it wasn’t so loud that Jason could hear. She supposed she could wait him out, but surely he wanted to talk to her. She had seen the flicker in his eyes. He would corner her if he had to.

But then another voice piqued Pamela’s interest from the other side of her office wall. She couldn’t hear their exact words, but the cadence and tone were unmistakable — Joan had come to visit Jason. After a brief interaction between the pair, the voices disappeared, followed by the sound of a set of footsteps pacing down the hallway towards max. Another brief moment of silence and there was a knock at Pamela's door. Her eyes slipped shut and her quivering hands shot beneath the desk a second time.

“Come in.”

The door opened tentatively and Pamela nearly climbed onto her desk and praised whatever gods she could imagine when Joan’s head peaked around the corner. Apparently, her relief was obvious.

“May I come in?” The brunette asked, though she had already begun to step into the room. Pamela nodded, setting her palms gently upon her great oak desk. Joan’s brows were knit together as her hand lingered on the doorknob, letting Pamela know this wasn’t going to be a long visit.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Dr. Woodrue?”

“There is nothing going on with me and Dr. Woodrue,” Pamela answered coolly, lifting her chin into the air indignantly. Joan didn’t buy it but pressed on.

“Are you going to tell me what _went_ on with you and Dr. Woodrue?”

“I already told you, we-”

“I do not like being lied to, Pamela Isley.”

“Doctor.”

Joan’s lips parted slightly in surprise and her head drew back. Confidence, though not unpleasant, was a foreign look on the new employee of Arkham Asylum.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Doctor Pamela Isley,” Pamela repeated, gathering her files and sliding them into her bag before stepping towards Joan and the door. “And you may have my pardon, since you begged.”

And with that, she pushed her way past her friend and into the hallway. She didn’t know if Joan followed or not, but there was no sound of footsteps behind her and no voice called out. Her heart was racing, and she felt a little guilty for being so curt and cold with her only friend, but Jason was a sore subject for the botanist. And she could dig herself out of her social awkwardness or fear of confrontation any day if it meant avoiding him in conversation.

When she reached the great metal door, she took one last look over her shoulder, but all she found was an empty hallway. Her office door had been closed and there was no sign of Dr. Leland. Frowning, the redhead scanned her ID and slipped into the maximum-security unit.

She only made it a few steps in before the lights shut off.

Her heart immediately lept into her throat, and it only took a few seconds more for the terrifying voices of inmates to envelope her, sending the hairs at the nape of her neck shooting straight up.

There was no way out but forward. Through the entire maximum unit and out the door. She didn’t know how or why the lights had shut off, but she knew she had to get out, soon. With no light, the inmates would be able to get away with more, and these were some of the craftiest, most genius men in Gotham. Half of them had a Ph.D. Without the safety of video recordings, who knows what they would be able to get away with if she gave them the time?

Tentatively, she took one shaky step forward, toe-first. She thought she vaguely heard Zsasz’s voice sneering at her somewhere ahead on her right side, but she couldn’t be sure. Crude whispers were turning to snickers and snide remarks.

“Whatsa matter, Dr. Isley?” Riddler asked somewhere to her left. “Not used to the dark yet?”

“We can see in the dark, Doctor,” hummed another voice, one she didn’t recognize, from right beside Riddler.

“Leave her alone,” came Croc’s gruff voice, but nobody was listening. Fresh meat had wandered into their home, and they were drooling. Nothing to do but move.

So move she did. She walked fairly briskly, modest heels clacking against the linoleum. She had only made it about halfway down the hall when the dim red emergency lights flickered on, her saving grace. They barely illuminating anything, but at last, at least, Pamela could make out shapes. As her eyes adjusted, she was horrified to find that most of the inmates were pressed up against the glass of their cells and leaning as close as possible to her. She had also begun to veer away from the center of the hall and favor the left side, finding herself not one foot away from one very tattooed individual whose tongue was lapping at the glass. A shiver ran through her as she jerked away and whirled about, frantic to make sure no one had exited their cell yet. She discovered, with a sigh of relief, that she was still the only one on the outside. At the introduction of the dim, flickering lights, the inmates grumbled, most padding back to their beds or toilets. She was about to proceed, a little more confidence welling up inside her chest, when she felt a presence behind her, stopping her in her tracks. Before she could even turn around, a pair of lips were beside her ear, hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there, and her hands clenched at her sides.

“Wh- Who’s there?”

“Hiya, Red.”

Relief did not wash over Pamela, but if she had to pick any inmate to be cornered by in this moment, Harley was right on the money.

“In the flesh,” Pamela stuttered nervously. “With m- mood light and everything.”

Harley laughed from behind her. Pamela still could not see the other woman.

“You’re funny, Doc. You should joke more often. You’re kinda okay at it.”

At this, Harley leaned just into Pamela’s peripheral, her pale face appearing over the redhead’s left shoulder.

“Here to return my pens?” The taller woman asked, voice still wavering even as she joked. “As I recall, you still have two of them.”

Harley smiled, one hand reaching around Pamela’s shoulder and slipping the blue ink pen from her right breast pocket.

“Actually, Mommy and Daddy are hopin’ a baby’ll make three.” Looking at the color of the new pen, Harley cackled. “Uh-oh. Blue ink. Mommy’s gonna have some explaining to do to Daddy.”

Suddenly, blue eyes grew a little more serious, and pale fingers circled Pamela’s wrist. The botanist didn’t flinch away.

“How’s your finger, by the way?”

“Oh.” Pamela blinked, looking down at the finger that had been jabbed earlier in the greenhouse. It was such a minuscule injury, she’d faced much worse just in grad school. “It’s fine, I guess.”

Harley raised the hand, noticing the latex bandaid wrapped around the injured fingertip. She lifted it to her lips, planting a soft, lingering kiss against the bandage, before releasing Pamela’s wrist and stepping away. Pamela turned around, watching the henchwoman slip into her glass cell again and slide the door shut. No sooner had her door closed, the florescent lights kicked back on, momentarily blinding the redhead.

“See ya tomorrow, Doc.”

Harley turned around and plopped down on her bed, tucking her new pen under her pillow and leaving Pamela with nothing to do but pad down the hall and wonder about the credibility of Arkham’s security department.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

“Goddammit, Harley.”

Harley pouted from her cushy chair across from Joan, who was dragging her hands down her face.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“I’m not the one who called a meetin’,” Harley whined, kicking her feet up onto the desk. Joan knocked them off with one swipe of her hand.

“Yes, well, when you blackmail the security guard to cut the lights for five minutes so you can sneak out of your cell and antagonize an employee, that’s grounds for a check-in. And potentially solitary confinement, so watch your tone.”

“Hey! I didn’t blackmail him, I sucked him off on his break!”

Joan couldn’t help the whine that slipped past her lips as she pulled out a clipboard and a pen.

“Right. Well, now you need to convince me you’ll behave and stay in your cell when you’re supposed to from now on.”

“Geez, would solitary really be that bad?”

Joan looked up from her clipboard, her expression jumping between amused and sympathetic.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Y’know Mistah J,” Harley sighed. “Anyway, I promise I’ll stay. I just wanted'a say hi to Pam.”

“Dr. Isley.”

“That whatcha call her when she’s got you bent over this desk?”

Joan was too tired and too frustrated to blush.

“Harley, we’ve only kissed. Once. Drunk. And it was a mistake. And Jesus, I should not be telling you this.”

Harley pouted, her feet jumping back up to the desk. This time, Joan let them stay. They sat in silence together for a moment, Harley appreciative of the break from Joker’s side and Joan grateful to reminisce. There was a time, not so long ago, when she and Harley were equals sitting in these seats, eating dinner together while pouring over patient files and sneaking in the occasional squeeze of a wrist.

As per usual, Harley broke the silence.

“So, that kiss.”

Joan looked up warily.

“Between you 'n Pammy. Do you think it’s ever gonna happen again? You two?”

Joan smiled almost saddly before training her eyes back on the notes before her and scribbling a timestamp at the top of the sheet.

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Joan looked up, tapping the pen on the paper and gazing at the woman across from her. Blue eyes sparkling with intrigue, she was almost Harleen again. But time had not been kind to Joan, and she would not let herself fall into the trap of believing her beloved would ever return. Not again, not anymore.

“I’m not her type.”

Before Harley could open her mouth to respond, Joan was reaching into her desk and pulling out a pill bottle, extending it to the blonde.

“Methylphenidate. For your ADHD. Somebody thought you could use the help.”

Harley took the bottle, turning it over in her hand. She looked up at Joan, who only shrugged.

“Wasn’t me.”

Harley looked back at the bottle, a small smile playing on her lips. As she turned the bottle over in her hands, at the very corner beside the dosage instructions was a tiny message written in perfect cursive.

_Use as instructed. Don’t sell to anyone. See you on Monday._

There was no name included, but a little leaf drawn beneath the note was all the signature Harley needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love my gays. Also, thinking of a Bly Manor AU with these two, would there be an audience for that? It would only be a one-shot, so it wouldn't pull my attention from this fic <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the hearty welcome! Happy to be back friends <3

Monday morning found Pamela scurrying up the steps of Arkham Asylum as fast as her feet could carry her, but her desperate attempt to escape wasn’t thanks to the rain that was pouring down that morning. Jason had been tailing her as soon as she pulled out of the parking lot of her apartment complex like he had been waiting for her, and she’d spent the entire drive trying to “accidentally” lose him. But she had failed, pulling into Arkham just a few seconds before him, and despite the speed at which she clambered out of the car, he finally caught her at the stairs.

“Pam!” he cried, his hand grasping her wrist. A memory flashed through her mind, reminding her of a time not so long ago when his grip had been a little too tight — she could feel the permanent ache that it had left, whether it was phantom or genuine she couldn’t confirm.

“Pam,” he tried again, a little more gently. “Enjoyed our little caravan this morning. We should make a thing of it.”

“Sure,” she muttered, turning back towards the building. His grip tightened and she hissed. While she had the protection of being out in public now, she knew how well he could hide his strength. And if she didn’t cooperate, the privacy of their offices could prove infelicitous for her later.

“I’d like to talk to you this morning. Before we see any patients. There’s something I want to run by you.”

She squeezed her eyes tight and clenched her teeth.

“Great.”

They met in her office. Jason had been generous enough to let her choose. The second her door closed, he was rounding on her, evidently oblivious to the way she seized in fear as he cornered her against the door (it wouldn’t have been the first time, and she had some pretty foul memories of the last instance).

“Arkham wants me to start testing on inmates as early as tomorrow,” he grinned through his bared teeth, looking much like the wolf cornering Little Red Riding Hood — my, Woodrue, what big teeth you have! _The better to eat you, my dear._

“T- Tomorrow?” she barely stammered out. He nodded enthusiastically. “Don’t you think that’s a little early?”

“Early?” He scoffed. “Considering it’s the whole reason we’re here, I think we’re running a little behind. Do you have an idea of who you’d like to test first?”

Pamela’s blood ran cold.

“Me?”

“Of course!” Jason stepped further into the room, setting his briefcase on the desk and clicking it open. Inside, nestled amongst scattered pages, was a small green metal case. He removed it, cradling it like a newborn infant as he turned back to face his petrified partner. Looking up at her with twinkling eyes, he extended it out to her.

“Go on. Take it.”

Pamela knew that refusal was futile. Her back stayed pressed against her own office door as her arms extended to accept his offering. It was heavy, though barely the size of her two hands put together. With shaking fingers, she eased the lid open to examine its contents.

A syringe, its needle twinkling, and a vial, filled with crystal clear liquid that swirled like sickly sweet syrup. Underneath, a tiny notebook labeled _Project Floron — Pamela Isley — Field Journal._ She almost dropped the case.

“So?” she vaguely heard a voice ask from somewhere in front of her. “Who do you think you’ll treat first?”

Her mouth was ajar as she looked up at him from the terrifying instrument in her hands.

“Did you say treat?”

“Yes, Pamela, that’s why we’re here. To treat patients.”

“Yes, Jason.” She swallowed, side-stepping her partner and walking into her office before setting the case on her desk gingerly as if it were a bomb ready to explode. “That is why we are here. To treat patients. Through _gardening therapy_. I am not here to experiment on human beings as if they were lab rats.”

Jason’s brows furrowed as his back straightened. All the childish excitement in his face had dissipated, and now all that shown through his steely expression was a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“You know what?” he growled, stepping closer to her. She inched backward, stopping only when the small of her back hit her desk and stopped her in her tracks. “I think I’m gonna try this on that Harley Quinn, first. I know how much you like her, it’d be my pleasure.”

“Don’t you _fucking dare._ ”

The words escaped her before she could reel them in, and she watched his face morph into something inhuman, vein in his forehead twitching rapidly. He leaned in, close enough to kiss her if he wanted to (and she honestly couldn’t tell if he wanted to).

“What did you say to me?”

“If you touch Harley Quinn, I swear to god I’ll—”

She felt the white-hot explosion of pain against her face before she even saw him lift his hand. Her head turned violently to the right, and she knew a pounding headache was sure to follow. Her hand flew up to cup the offended cheek, and when she looked up, Jason’s eyes were already softening.

“Pam,” he whispered under his breath, his hands reaching up to cup the exact place they had just struck. She flinched away. “Pam, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Jason, I need you to leave.”

“Pam, let me make it up to you, I promise I didn’t—”

“You need to leave. Now.”

“Baby—”

“ _No._ ”

“You know I love—”

“ _Stop_.”

His hands cupped the back of her neck firmly, pulling her in for an abrupt, firm kiss. After three pounds of her fists to his chest, she finally succeeded in shoving him off of her.

“We said we were done with that,” she spat, wiping her mouth. “If you _ever_ touch me again, if you hit me or kiss me or _touch me at all_ , I’m filing a police report and getting Chief Commissioner Gordan down here faster than you can snap your fingers. I may hate my father, but if you think for a second that he wouldn’t fly up here to smack you down with the fattest fucking civil lawsuit for compensatory damages you’ve ever seen, you’re not worth a single credit hour of your Ph.D. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

And amazingly, he did.

The second her door was shut, Pamela collapsed into her chair, hands folding beneath her head as she shuddered. She never used language like that, and she had certainly never threatened anyone before. What was more, it had worked. Jason had glared and growled, but he’d slinked out of her office with his tail tucked between his legs. It had worked — but at what cost?

She didn’t realize there were tears streaming down her face until the knock came at her door. She wanted to cry out, to throw her desk phone at the door, to jump out the window, but she had a job to do. So she straightened up and wiped her cheeks, praying her eyes weren’t too puffy and red.

“Yes.”

C.O. Iconis’s head poked through the door. Pamela raised her hand as his mouth opened, stopping him in his tracks.

“Take her cuffs off. Let her in. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”

Harley stumbled through the door, smiling and waving at her two guards as they raised a brow at her and shut the door behind them. She was still giggling when she turned towards Pamela and then her face fell.

“Hey, whoa, Red, what’s goin’ on?”

The blonde powered towards the desk, pushing past her usual seat and rounding the desk to Pamela’s side. Normally the redhead would be taken aback by such advances, but she was barely keeping it together as it was.

“Oh please, Miss Quinn, I’m fine—”

Harley’s hands cupped Pamela’s cheeks, much as Jason’s had just minutes before, and yet Pamela didn’t jerk away. Harley’s hands were colder, yes, but softer and smoother and far more tender, too. Pamela found herself easing into the blonde’s touch.

“I know a shiner when I see one, Doc. Who the hell’s hittin’ a fancy-ass doctor?”

Pamela was sure that the blush dusting her cheeks was beginning to mask whatever mark Jason had left on her. Her hands reached up with the intention of pushing Harley’s away, but she only succeeded in wrapping her fingers gently around the blonde’s wrists.

“He didn’t hit—”

Harley scoffed.

“I didn’ even mention a he. D’you gotta first aid kit around here somewhere? You’re bleedin’ a bit.”

“But—”

“First aid kit?”

Pamela pointed to a drawer in her desk as she reached up to touch her cheek. She hissed as she withdrew and saw a spot of tacky blood on her fingertips.

“Oh my god, I am bleeding.”

Harley had returned, holding a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a drenched cotton pad.

“Okay, lemme see.”

Pamela reluctantly turned her injured cheek towards Harley, who gently dapped at the broken skin. Pamela hissed and Harley winced.

“Sorry Red, just gotta clean it up a bit. If it gets infected it’ll turn purple and you don’ want that. Trust me.”

Harley pulled a tube of ointment from the open kit on the desk and gently swiped a generous amount over the angry lump that was forming under the cut.

“You know,” Pamela pointed out, “I could have just gone to see the on-site doctor.”

“Yeah, you coulda. Too bad you didn’ and I had to do it myself.”

They eased back into silence as Harley put the kit back together and settled it back in its respective drawer. She walked back around the desk and settled in her usual seat, to Pamela’s utter surprise. They held eye contact for a moment or two, Pamela peering at the inmate through one raised brow, before speaking.

“So are you going to tell me how you got so good at first-aid?”

Harley snickered.

“I’m the Joker’s henchwoman and girlfriend. Lickin’ wounds is half my job.”

Pamela wasn’t sure if she was referring to the Joker’s wounds or her own, but she decided not to question it.

“So,” Harley continued, “don’t imagine you asked Santy Claus for a shiner for Christmas, are ya gonna tell me who gift-wrapped it?”

Pamela shook her head.

“Thank you for your services, Miss Quinn, but that is not why we are here today. I’d like to discuss—”

“It’s that Woodrue guy, ain’t in?” Harley interjected. “He messin’ with ya? I got funny vibes from him.”

“I hardly think it’s any of your business.”

Harley shrugged, kicking her heels up in true Harley fashion.

“I can make it my business if ya want.”

Pamela wasn’t entirely sure what Harley meant, but her chest suddenly swelled with a foreign warmth.

“Miss Quinn, if we could discuss last week’s lesson in the… um… the lesson in the… greenhouse…”

Pamela trailed off, distracted by the incessant clicking of one of her pens, which had suddenly appeared in Harley’s hand.

“Is that one from before or did you just steal that one?”

“Wouldn’tcha like t’know, plant lady?” Harley smiled. Pamela reached behind her ear and realized the pen she usually tucked away there was gone.

“Hey, when did you—”

“Don’t watch the mouth, watch the hands,” Harley shrugged. “Can’t blame ya, though. I got a pretty captivatin’ mouth.”

“Harley—”

Pamela was smiling and shaking her head, but she sobered suddenly as she caught herself.

“Miss Quinn—”

“No,” Harley interrupted, blue eyes sparkling as she leaned forward. “I like Harley.”

Pamela couldn’t say no, and that scared her.

“God, it’s hot in here,” Harley mumbled suddenly. “You don’t mind if I take this off, do ya?”

She grabbed her back button-up and shook it against her chest. Pamela didn’t quite understand, so she shrugged her consent. So when Harley pulled the shirt over her head, leaving her in nothing but her bra, Pamela could do nothing but gape. Harley’s brows furrowed.

“What?”

Pamela’s mouth opened closed a little before she found her bearings.

“I don’t… know if this is appropriate, Miss Quinn.”

“You mean Harley.”

“I mean Miss Quinn.”

Harley waved her hand.

“They ain’t comin’ in here unless you start screamin’. Which I can arrange, if ya want, but I don’t think—”

“ _Did you like planting the rose bush last week?_ ”

“Right! Sorry, ADHD,” Harley laughed. “But’cha know all about that. It was you, wasn’ it? The methylphenidate?”

Pamela pulled out another pen from her desk. She wouldn’t dare tell anyone she had gone to the office supply store the night before and bought a pack of 24 ballpoint pens. When she looked back up, she fought valiantly to keep her eyes trained on Harley’s face. She would not objectify the other woman, despite the many distracting tattoos peppering her pale skin and weaving through her ribs.

“I think Dr. Leland might consider upping your dosage. You’re having an incredibly difficult time staying on task today.”

“If she just let me self-administer,” Harley grumbled under her breath, and Pamela thought she caught her slip out of her thick Brooklyn accent for just a minute. Was that a glimpse of the Harleen she had been hearing so much about?

“But while we’re down the rabbit hole, I gotta tell ya, Doc — you shouldn’ let him touch you like that.”

Pamela’s head ducked as she averted her eyes.

“Yes. Well. That’s hardly our concern for today. And—”

“I mean, technically, if I don’ feel safe around him, y’know, as one'a his patients, I can report somethin’. If you don’ wanna.”

Pamela’s lips parted.

“You’d do that?"

Harley shrugged. “If you’re too scared’a confront your beast in the jungle—”

“Hey,” Pamela inserted. “Who ever said I was scared?”

“No, I get it, trust me. Abusive relationships are hard ta—”

“You know, Miss Quinn, this is a little rich coming from you. You, the notorious pin cushion to the Joker.”

Harley could tell she had hit a nerve, and the psychiatrist in her knew she shouldn’t take offense. But she was starting to become offended.

“Now wait just a minute, here, Red, I don’ care for your—”

“No, forgive me, I just think it’s a little hypocritical of you. Seeing as the Joker routinely abuses you and all but pimps you out.”

Little did Pamela know that the Joker was all but pimping Harley out at this very moment. Why else would Harley be sitting in a meeting with her botanical therapist with no shirt on? Why else would she have patched up said therapist’s cheek? Why else would she have sucked on her dirty, bloody finger?

All this Harley tried to justify as she talked herself down from the ledge. She knew what Pamela was going through, the pain of not feeling enough, the anger, the guilt, the feeling that it was her fault. Taking in a deep breath, the appertaining rage faded away and the blonde rolled her shoulders back.

“That’s me. Harley the Hypocrite. Let’s talk about plants.”

Pamela sighed, burying her face in her hands.

“No. God, I’m sorry. It’s a sore subject. I apologize. I really don’t know why I’m sharing so much with you—”

“Hey, I used’a be a psychiatrist,” Harley reminded her. “Part of my job is gettin’ people to open up.”

Pamela looked up, her eyes training on her patient’s. She finally allowed them to wander down just barely, taking in a long, thin tattoo that seemed to weave up and along Harley’s forearm and wrap around her wrist.

“Is… is that a vine?”

Harley looked down to where Parmela’s eyes had fallen and smiled.

“Oh, yeah. Thought it looked pretty dope.”

Pamela hummed in acquiesce.

“It does.”

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

They didn’t talk about gardening at all. They spoke of Harley’s tattoos, of Pamela’s settling into Arkham, of both their degrees. Pamela was fascinated to find that Harley had actually graduated from school and finished her residency two years earlier than most, and was only 26 presently. A fascinating life she had lead in less than 3 decades. Harley herself was positively thrilled to discover that Pamela had once upon a time played the electric guitar as a kind of rebellion against her uppity, droll parents. The half-hour seemed to pass in an instant, and in no time, the tell-tale knock was sending Harley scrambling to pull her uniform button-up back on before the guards poked their heads in.

“Doctor Isley?”

“Actually, we gotta 53 seconds left, Joe,” Harley corrected without tearing her gaze from Pamela’s. The guards looked at one another and grumbled before shutting the door behind them once more. Pamela laughed, having become much more comfortable doing so in front of her patient over the course of this past session.

“53 seconds?”

“Gotta take every minute I can get,” the blonde hummed. Pamela tried to understand that it was because the harlequin was cooped up in a cell all day and not because she just enjoyed sitting in the redhead’s presence. She found herself asking the words before her brain could consider the repercussions.

“When will I see you again?”

“Oh,” Harley mused, standing with a small smirk as the guards re-entered the room with handcuffs ready to lock her in. “I’m sure you can call a meetin' whenever you want. Have your people call my people.” And with that, she winked, and the trio walked back out, leaving Pamela alone with nothing but a pounding chest and a splitting grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a slow burn, but your pateince will be rewarded, I promise!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to my friends who celebrate it! I am thankful for all of you <3 so much love!
> 
> xx Derby

That evening found Pamela Isley standing outside the attached cells of The Joker and Harley Quinn, heart pounding as the Clown Prince of Crime gazed at her, practically salivating. Harley was doing her best to avert her eyes, instead focusing on seeing how many letters she could spell with the now four pens in her possession while she sat on the concrete floor criss-cross applesauce.

“Dr. Isley,” Joker purred, his clammy palms pressed against this glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Believe it or not, I’m here for Harley,” Pamela retorted bravely.

A flicker of something mischievous flashed through the Joker’s features, but Pamela was in no mood or the proper headspace to dissect it.

“Of course, Doctor, of course, why wouldn’t you be here for your _favorite patient_? Harley girl?”

Pamela bristled at the objectifying name, but her mood lifted considerably when Harley’s gaze lifted and blue eyes met hers. A sweet smile was Pamela’s reward for waiting out Jason’s departure in her office, and she felt it was well worth it.

“Hiya, doc,” Harley hummed. Her voice was softer, quieter, warmer. Pamela briefly wondered if this was her muted personality when in the presence of her boyfriend. (Boyfriend? Boss? Lover? Employer?)

“Hello, Harley.”

“Harleyyy,” Joker tutted, wagging. Finger back and forth. “Where are your manners? Why don’t you greet the good doctor, hmm? You need some privacy? I’ll look away.”

Pamela’s brows furrowed as Harley blushed, but the blonde stood and stepped closer to the glass. Joker winked at the redhead and padded back over to his bed, collapsing onto the metal cot and folding his hands over his eyes, foot tapping irritably. No doubt he was planning his next big escape.

“So, how come you’re visitin’?” Harley finally asked. “‘Coulda just called a meetin’.”

“It’s too urgent,” Pamela whispered hurriedly, side-eyeing the nearest camera and praying it couldn’t record audio. “I needed to talk to you tonight.”

“You’re kinda scarin’ me, Doc.”

“It’s my partner. Doctor Woodrue. He’s… there’s… well, I can’t really get into it fully, but I think he’s going to call a meeting with you tomorrow.”

“Me?” Harley asked incredulously. “Why me?”

Pamela huffed in frustration, running a hand through her messy red curls. Harley quietly realized this was the first time she’d seen the doctor with her hair down.

“He’s working on something. I can’t get into it-”

“Then what’re you tryna tell me, doc? Because you’re not being’ very-”

“Harley.” Pamela’s voice was firm. “You need to listen to me. Jason Woodrue is developing at serum. It’s supposed to use the regenerative powers of plants to help speed along the healing processes of injury, and he wants to test it on you tomorrow.”

Harley’s grimaced.

“But I’m not hurt anywhere.”

Pamela only offered a grave look, and it clicked in Harley’s mind.

“I don’t know what the serum does, Harley. And I don’t know what he’s going to do to you to prep you. But whatever he has planned for you tomorrow, he does not have your best interest in mind. He…”

Pamela swallowed, noticing the Joker had begun to listen in to the conversation.

“He wants to hurt you.”

“So why are you here?” Joker spat. Pamela jerked, only just realizing that he was now pressed up against the glass in the closest corner to Harley’s cell. She swallowed.

“I care for my patient.”

“Of course,” he hummed, turning on the ball of his foot and waving his hand in the air. “Of course, you care for your patient. How could you not? Eh, Harley girl?”

Harley’s gaze found Pamela’s, and she shook her head gingerly. The message was lost on Pamela.

“Of course you care about Harley,” Joker continued. “And so do I. Which is why I’ll be volunteering to take her place tomorrow.”

Pamela’s mouth opened and closed a few times before she was able to find her bearings.

“That’s a thoughtful sentiment, but I don’t think you realize the severity of the situation. This is personal, my situation with Woodrue, and-”

“And don’t you think it would be a fine feather in Dr. Jason Woodrue’s cap to have tested on the Joker? And if it works, _god_ , he’ll be winning the Nobel prize in no time.”

“Puddin’, you’d do that for me?” Harley grinned, and just like that, it was like Pamela didn’t exist anymore.

“Wait a minute,” the redhead barked. She might have been new, but she knew enough about the Joker to know how out-of-character this suspiciously selfless volunteer was. “What’s in it for you?”

Joker grinned.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know, ragweed?”

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The following morning, when the alarms went off at 8am, Pamela realized _exactly_ why Joker had volunteered to take Harley’s place. It was an escape plan. All along, it had been an escape plan.

Jason must have agreed when Joker sent word via numb-skull security guard that he wanted to be tested on before Harley first thing in the morning. Then, when the guards had come to collect the Clown Prince of Crime, he had somehow managed to take them down and slip out of his cuffs. Where he was now in his escape, she couldn’t say, but if the alarms were going, surely he was already all but out of their grasp.

Now, sitting in her office next door to Jason’s, Pamela could only wonder if he had taken Harley with him.

Her phone rang suddenly, jerking her from her thoughts. She reached for it and answered, heart hammering in her chest.

“Dr. Isley’s office.”

“Pam.” It was Leland’s voice. “The Asylum is on lockdown. Joker’s escaped. He left Harley, you need to be aware because she might try to-”

“He left Harley?”

“Pam, you need to stay in your room, do you understand? Harley is a psychopath ex-psychiatrist with a histrionic personality disorder, she is dangerous and manipulative and she knows that you have a soft spot for her-”

Suddenly, a roar of outrage from just next-door interrupted their conversation, and Pamela realized just how many beasts she was facing this morning. Jason surely had figured out what was happening, and Pamela knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid him for much longer. No sooner had she come to that conclusion did she hear the sound of a door being thrown open and footsteps pounding down the hall.

“Fuck. Jason. Fuck!”

“What?” Leland asked on the other end. “Pam, what’s going on down there?”

He was enraged. He needed to test on someone. He was hunting for Harley.

Before she could stop herself, Pamela was bolting out her door and running down the hall in the first direction her feet carried her, leaving Leland calling after her through the receiver to no avail.

Pamela followed the path of destruction before her, shattered glass and smears of blood littering the floor and walls of the otherwise bland halls of Arkham Asylum. She could only hope she was headed in the right direction, and that she would get to Harley before Jason. What she would do when she found her prize pupil, she had no clue, but it was better than waiting it out in her office and letting Jason take out his fury at Pamela on someone who had nothing to do with their affairs. Jason was already out of her sight, and her heart dropped as she considered the possibility that he had gotten to Harley first.

As she rounded a corner, however, the thought was soon banished from her mind as she suddenly found herself colliding with a lithe body decked out in an orange jumpsuit, knocking them both to the ground.

“Fffuck. Fuck!”

Pamela looked up, heart rate spiking.

“Harley!”

“Listen, Doc, we gotta do this another time, I got somewhere to be-”

Harley was standing, dusting her britches off, but Pamela could not let her leave. They were far from the nearest exit point of Arkham, and guards were already on the prowl, not to mention—

“Come with me.”

Pamela grabbed Harley’s wrist, and something feral flashed through crystal blue eyes. The blonde yanked her arm back painfully, glaring at Pamela.

“I have to leave. Right now. Don’t get in my way.”

Pamela didn’t know how she managed to grab Harley around the waist, hoist her into the air, and drag her (kicking and screaming) down the hallway, but something had taken over her.

“Put me down! _Put me down now!_ ” Harley bellowed, but Pamela’s grip was vice-like. She threw the nearest door open, dropped Harley, and slammed the door shut behind them, pressing her own back against it to keep Harley trapped inside. It was pitch black in the room, but Pamela could tell by the smell of cleaning supplies and the thick, humid air that they were in the cleaning supplies closet. Her fingers flew to the door handle and she slid the deadbolt into place. _Why was there a deadbolt in the janitor’s closet? Only in Arkham._

“What. The. Fuck,” Harley seethed, vibrating with anger.

“Listen to me, Harley,” Pamela interrupted. “You need to listen to me. Give me a _minute_ , goddammit.”

Harley sneered in the dark.

“Thirty seconds.”

“Jason is trying to kill you.” Pamela wasted no time. “I’ve royally pissed him off and he wants to hurt me, and he knows the only way to-”

“What the fuck does this have to do with me?!”

“I don’t care about anything, Harley!” Pamela cried. “I just don’t. I care about my job, I used to care about Jason, I guess, I care about plants, but people…”

She ran a hand through her hair (still down) and sighed, slumping against the door as her mind finally caught up with her body.

“I’m not normal. I’ve never cared for people. But you…”

She tapered off, glad Harley couldn’t see her in the dark. She wished the floor would open her up and swallow her whole.

“Jason wants to kill me,” Harley repeated, stepping closer.

Pamela nodded before remembering Harley couldn’t see her, so she cleared her throat and answered in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes.”

“And my beautiful doctor has dragged me into a dark closet and locked the door while the entire asylum staff is looking for an escaped madman and expecting I’m with him?”

“I don’t—”

Harley’s hand reached up and brushed past Pamela’s hip on the inside of her lab coat and the redhead’s breath hitched.

“Harley—”

“You care about me?”

Had the lights been on, Harley surely would have mercilessly taunted Pamela for the red-hot blush that was warming her cheeks.

“I guess I must.”

Harley considered that for a minute, gnawing on her lip, before nodding and taking Pamela’s lab coat by the lapels.

“Okay.”

And she closed the space between them and pulled a clueless Pamela into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teehee!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT GET TOO EXCITED this the shortest little section! I'm in finals for uni and working hard, so I don't know when next I'll be able to update a full chapter, but I didn't want to go too long without updating. Please enjoy this tiniest blurb (which was originally going to be the first part of a very loooong chapter, so buckle up for the next update!)
> 
> Side note: don't know if you've picked up on this little detail, but pay special attention to Harley's vernacular when you read, it's a great indicator of how present Harleen Quinzel is vs. Harley Quinn!
> 
> xx Derby

It was a bad first kiss.

Pamela was stuttering against Harley’s mouth the entire five seconds it lasted as Harley tried with incredible valor to kiss her with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. But Pamela was too consumed, too hyped up on adrenaline from being in a locked-down asylum with not one, but two murderous men running about.

Finally, after the second push against Harley’s shoulders, the blonde pulled away and growled in frustration.

“Jesus, Red, what’s the problem?”

Pamela searched for words, her eyes bugging out like a fish in a fishbowl.

“Wh- I- Harley, you- the asylum is on lockdown! Looking for _you_ , among others! Namely your boyfriend — oh, _fuck_ , your _boyfriend_ , your criminally insane boyfriend! And not to mention the fact-”

“Aw, Doc, come on, Mistah J never minded sharin’ me-”

“Well, he should! And not to mention the fact that I am your _doctor_ and you are my _patient_ and I just don’t- don’t- I-”

“D’ya like women?” Harley interrupted. Pamela grumbled, fisting her own hair.

“Sure.”

“D’ya like me?”

This was a much more loaded question, one that Pamela wasn’t sure she herself could answer properly.

“You are beautiful-”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Harley leaned in for another kiss, but Pamela reached out to stop her, her breath leveling at last as her expression sobered.

“That’s not all that matters. That shouldn’t be all that matters, even if it’s all that matters to Joker. Harley, you were an incredible woman. Are! You _are_ an _incredible woman_. You graduated two years early from medical school. You started your residency at twenty-six. That’s phenomenal, you understand? You’re the smartest person in this entire building, doctors and patients included. You’re funny and you’re athletic and even though you’ve done some…” She trailed, wondering if she should press on. “…some somewhat sadistic and mildly twisted things, you’ve got this beautiful, endearing enthusiasm and zest for life, and somehow you still care so much about the people around you. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Harley was motionless in front of her.

“Leland told’ya all that, huh?”

Pamela nodded.

“She’s got great respect for you. She cares, a lot.”

“Mm-hmm." Harley toed the linoleum tile at her feet. "And you?”

Pamela kept her back pressed against the door, still very aware of the chaos happening outside of it and Harley’s inexplicable desire to leap into the fray. Even so, she reached for Harley’s wrist and found it in the dark, offering a tentative squeeze. Harley misread the intention and stepped back into Pamela’s space, their thighs brushing, eliciting a gentle hitch of Pamela’s breath. With her heels on, she must have had six inches on the blonde. Swallowing, the botanist shrugged.

“I could maybe find the capacity to.”

Harley nodded, her fingers dancing up Pamela’s arms and reaching up to the base of the taller woman’s neck, caressing her.

“Can I kiss you?”

Pamela sighed, her heart hammering in her chest. She wished it were as simple as that.

“I’m your… I can’t-”

“Pamela.”

The lack of a pet name was jarring.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Harley rephrased.

Pamela wanted to. And so Pamela did. It was a good second kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I love you all and your support and feedback! I love hearing from you guys, it really keeps me excited about writing. For those of you who don't know, writing is just the tiniest part of my life, it has nothing to do with either of the two subjects I'm studying in school or my life plan. I fell out of it for a while, but Harlivy brought me back, and you guys have kept me here. So hearing what you loved and what you want to see more of and how you relate to these girls is so wonderful for me! I hope you all are doing well, and to my fellow students going through the wringer right now, good luck and cheers!
> 
> So much love,  
> Derby


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter listening to the Happiest Season soundtrack. Hot take (please don’t hate me), I really like Abby and Harper together and the ending did not upset me in the slightest. Riley was a sexy motherfucker, though. Let’s discuss.
> 
> Also, sexy times ensue. Don't read this chapter if you're not interested in that sorta thing.

If Harley was being honest, she was a little surprised.

It wasn’t that Pamela’s sexuality was hard to read, that much was pretty obvious. At least, it was evident that she certainly did not care for men. So Harley could either deduce that the botanist was simply uninterested in anything but plants (unlikely, considering how her eyes had nearly rolled back in her head while Harley had massaged the pad of her finger with her tongue) or she was a flaming fucking lesbian.

Neither was what surprised Harley the sheer enthusiasm with which she was being kissed. Even though _Pam_ had kissed _her_. Sure, Harley had asked her. Invited her. But still, what were the odds? She’d laid out a trap made out of a simple box and stick for a genius, and the genius had tumbled right into her clutches. This so-called “genius” was shaping up to be much more of a useless, gay dumbass.

No, what surprised Harley was that she was enjoying this.

Harley’s hand had found residence upon the botanist’s hip, her other sliding up a surprisingly firm bicep to tangle into red locks. Her fingers twisted in the hair at the nape of Pamela’s neck, eliciting a soft moan from the redhead, a sound that sparked a fire in the pit of Harley’s stomach and traveled straight to her core. But before Harley could try it again to see if she would make the same sound (what was the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?), Pamela was pushing against her shoulders again.

Harley pulled away with a bemoaned grumble, but with much more ease than before. Her eyes had started to adjust in the dark, though they had been closed, and she was finally able to make out the shape of the woman standing before. Jesus, she really was tall.

“We should stop,” Pamela mumbled, reaching up to wipe her mouth. Harley smiled and rocked back on her heels.

“We got about thirty minutes before they even think t’look in somewhere like here, Doc.”

Apparently, “Doc” had been the wrong pet name to choose at that moment, because Pamela groaned and removed her hands from Harley completely.

“That’s just it. You realize I’m your doctor. I could get in so much trouble for-”

“You could get in so much trouble for what, Pam? Huh? Testing an illegal, un-endorsed, un-authorized chemical on your patients?”

“For _fucking_ my patient.”

Harley liked it when she said ‘fuck.’

Pamela ran a hand through her hair and looked up sheepishly, adding on, “and for that.”

“Uh-huh,” Harley nodded, her hands finding the lapels of one very sexy lab coat and pressing her chest against Pamela’s, trying desperately not to become distracted by the curve of supple breasts against hers. “So you get in trouble either way. Why not get an orgasm out of it?”

“I get in trouble if they _find out_ about Project Floron, Harley, but if they find me in— uh, um, an… an orgasm?”

"You didn’ think this was it, didya?” Harley purred, pushing further into Pamela (and pressing the latter more firmly against the door). “A sloppy makeout in a janitor’s closet without ever goin’ past first base? I’m not my 17-year-old brother.”

“N- No,” Pamela concurred, her legs starting to wobble in her high heel shoes (why Pamela why why why did you wear these again). “Certainly not. But I don’t think that it’s in either of our best interest to— _ahhhhh_.”

Harley’s thigh had found residence between Pamela’s own, and she was putting just enough pressure behind her toned muscle to make Pamela want nothing more than to rock against her.

“You don’t want me, _Doc_?” Harley pouted, shifting her leg just enough. Pamela’s eyes seemed to be screwed tight, and she stood motionless — her self control was admirable.

“You’re beautiful—”

“Please,” Harley scoffed. She leaned in, her lips lingering beside Pamela’s ear as her hot breath ghosted over her ear. “I’m so sick of that bullshit. You want me.”

Pamela’s hands fell to the blonde’s hips, whether in an attempt to push her away or pull her closer unbeknownst to either woman. Harley shifted her hips forwards, her knee sliding along the junction of Pamela’s thighs, and the taller woman’s fists clenched against orange jumpsuit-clad hips. No matter if she lied, Pamela couldn’t deny it, so why not maintain a shred of dignity?

“I want you.”

“Mm-hmm,” Harley nodded, her hands reaching up to smooth along the flat of Pamela’s chest, evening out the wrinkles that were forming in the typically pristine starched fabric. “When was the last time you ever did somethin’ because you wanted to, Red? Hmm? Look at me.”

Pamela’s eyes flickered open only briefly, but when she saw Harley’s eyes gazing at her heatedly, they snapped shut once more and her breath hitched.

“It doesn’t matter wh- what I want,” Pamela stammered. “My job, and your boyfriend, and Jason, he’ll—”

“He can’t afford to lose you, Doc,” Harley purred, her fingers dancing along the ginger’s collarbone. “You know too much. You’re safe. You’re insured. And god, you’re so hot grinding against my thigh.”

Pamela hadn’t even noticed it, but as Harley had astutely pointed out, it seemed that she had, indeed, begun to rock against the blonde’s leg. She tried to stop, but Harley’s hands found her hips and urged them to continue.

“Promise me something, Red, yeah?”

Pamela didn’t think she had the strength to deny her.

“For the next ten minutes, you can say whatever you want and nobody’s gonna judge y’for it. But you hafta tell me what you want.”

Pamela could only whimper. Harley sighed. Maybe words were too hard right now.

“Aright, I’ll try t’do the talkin’ for ya.”

Pamela nodded, her hips working on their own now. Harley released them, but rocked slowly enough to meet the redhead’s movements, her heart skipping a beat when she felt their hips knock against each other for the first time. God help her, she was enjoying it, too. Well, who cared? Work could be fun. She could enjoy work.

“You want me, Pammy?” Harley asked. One hand found Pamela’s forearm, squeezing her there softly but firmly before lifting it above their heads and planting it against the door. Pamela gasped.

“Yes.”

“Good girl,” Harley hummed.

Pamela whined at the praise. Jesus, she sure didn’t match the sultry, tall, dominatrix redhead stereotype, did she?

“Very good girl. You want me to make you come right here against this door, ’s’at right?”

“I don’t—”

“Uh-uh,” Harley corrected, lifting her free hand to the redhead’s lips. “No, Red. I didn’t ask if y’thought it was a good idea. Listen to the question. I asked if y’wanted me to make you come right here against this door.”

Pamela didn’t respond, so Harley squeezed her wrist.

“’S not a rhetorical question, Red.”

“Yes,” Pamela responded, voice coming out much more hoarse than she’d intended.

“You want my fingers inside you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pamela gasped.

“I take that as a yes,” Harley grinned proudly, her hand reaching between them and cupping Pamela’s center with her hand. There were still presumably two layers between them — dark blue jeans and a pair of underwear, the botanist didn’t seem like the type to go commando — but still, Harley could feel the warmth between them. Pamela, for her part, wiggled closer.

“Harley, I want…”

She tapered off, but Harley was not about to let the opportunity pass her by.

“What do you want?”

Pamela felt shy about the request, especially given the progression of events, but when was the next time she would find herself in a closet with a beautiful woman that obviously wanted to fuck her with at least thirty minutes of privacy? (Much sooner, she would later find out, than she could have possibly imagined, but she didn't know that yet.)

“I want you to kiss me.”

Harley was taken aback, unsure if she should coo and pinch the woman’s cheeks or scoff arrogantly. But rather than do either, she found her chest swelling with something new and foreign, so she chose instead to lean forward and attach her lips to the woman she now had pressed into the door, releasing her wrist from the door and cupping her cheeks with both hands.

Pamela’s lips parted delicately but purposefully, an invitation, and Harley resisted the urge to slip her tongue straight in. Pamela had requested this, and she’d been so damn sweet, so vulnerable, the blonde knew she needed to start slow. She gingerly traced Pamela’s lower lip with the tip of her tongue, flicking just past her lips and into her mouth teasingly before retreating. Pamela whined against her, and Harley responded with a quick press of her hand against the redhead’s core, the latter jolting in surprise.

“Hey!” she yelped.

“Hi!” Harley responded enthusiastically.

The redhead had to laugh, and then of course the blonde had to laugh at her own stupid joke, and something in the air shifted. The tension snapped, the awkwardness of it all dissipated, and she suddenly realized that she trusted Harley. And no sooner had she come to the realization, she realized she had never wanted anything more in her life.

“Harley, I want your fingers inside me.”

“Oh. Shit. Wow.”

“Can you do that?”

Harley’s fingers made quick work of the blue jeans button and her finger unzipped the fly skillfully.

“‘Can I do that,’ Red, you fuckin’ idiot.”

Pamela laughed as Harley’s fingers slid beneath the wasteland of her underwear (nothing special, but thankfully not granny panties). Harley worked her hand gently lower and lower, her finger hitting the pooling wetness before anything else. Just as Pamela was sucking in a breath of anticipation, Harley was groaning, bringing her body flush against the redhead’s.

“You’re wet.”

“Obviously,” Pamela whispered, one arm looping around Harley’s neck, the other clenched in a fist against her stomach. Harley noticed and used her free hand to gingerly pull apart the redhead’s fingers and smooth over them.

“Breathe. You ever been with a woman before?”

Pamela nodded.

“But not like this.”

Harley thought she meant in a closet. She didn’t know Pamela meant something else entirely.

“You can tell me to stop whenever,” Harley assured her, tucking back a strand of red hair. She could only imagine what it would be like to be granted the same luxury from her madman lover.

“How can I tell you stop before you’ve even started?” Pamela covered, her hips bucking forward in a failed attempt to move closer to Harley’s hand. Harley’s hand, which was buried in her pants. Jesus _fuck_.

“Message received.”

Harley’s fingers were met with no resistance as they slid through slick folds for the first time, and she heard the tell-tale _thunk_ of Pamela’s head hitting against the door.

“Shhh,” Harley purred, her fingers repeating the motion. Pamela nodded her understanding, grinding her teeth in an attempt to silence herself. “Is this okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” Pamela nodded, trying valiantly to infuse some composure in her voice. She failed, obviously.

“You’re wet for me.”

“That’s the general consensus.”

Oh, that little whine in her voice was intoxicating. Still, Harley couldn’t help but laugh.

“You talk like that in bed, too, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Pamela husked, suddenly very tired of Harley’s teasing as she tried to rub herself against too-still fingers, “we aren’t really in bed, are we?”

“You got a ‘tude on you, know that?” Harley pointed out, slipping one finger inside of her newfound lover. Pamela’s mouth dropped as her back arched against the door and an involuntary moan escaped her lips.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harled rolled her eyes. “If yer gonna be loud, bite down on somethin’ or some shit.”

“Come closer to me,” Pamela instructed, and Harley obliged, her entire body as flush as it could be against the other woman’s while still leaving enough space for her arm to work. She was shocked by the feeling of a perfect set of teeth sinking into her shoulder, and it was her turn to stifle a moan.

“Good choice,” she praised before slipping a second finger past Pamela's hot entrance. The redhead moaned into her shoulder, and Harley shuddered, suddenly finding herself resisting the urge to rock against her own hand.

But there were much more pressing matters at hand.

Pamela was wound up tight. It didn’t take long for the blonde to work her up to the point of release. And when Pamela’s walls began to flutter and her teeth sank deeper into Harley’s shoulder, the blonde fought against her own rush of ecstasy.

_Not here. Not now. There’s a job to do._

Just as the redhead gasped out and arched into the blonde’s hand, Harley was pulling her fingers out of the other woman, yanking her aside, and throwing the door open, sprinting down the hall before Pam could even realize what had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't hate me, I gave you harlivy closet sex.


	14. Chapter 14

He’d left without her. He said they were going to work together, that he’d help get her out of there, but god help her, it still surprised her every time he threw her under the bus.

Harley’s thoughts were racing a mile a minute as she stood motionless on the steps of Arkham Asylum, her inner monologue drowning out the blaring sounds of police sirens and shouting guards. She watched as the Joker sped away in a police car, seated in the lap of a police officer whose throat was sliced open as he blew her a kiss and peeled violently out of the parking lot. She didn’t fight the swarm of security guards as they tackled her to the ground and yanked her arms behind her back, cold metal pinching her bleached skin as they cuffed her. God, she really was a fucking idiot, wasn’t she?

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The alarms were still blaring when Pamela threw Leland’s door open, not bothering to knock first. The brunette, who had been pacing around the room like a wild animal in a cage, suddenly stilled. Brown eyes snapped up to meet green, a cocktail of confusion, relief, and anger painted on the psychiatrist’s face.

“Pamela, thank god,” Leland gushed, rushing forward to pull Pamela into the room and shut the door behind her. “Where have you been? We’re still on lockdown. Did you go after Har—”

“Jason is going to kill me,” Pamela interrupted as she was settled into the patient’s seat.

“I beg pardon?”

“I really mean it, Joan, he wants to kill me.”

“Hang on, last I heard from you it sounded like you were going after Harley. What happened? Are you okay? Christ, did someone hit you?”

Leland’s fingers brushed against Pamela’s neck, inspecting something, and the redhead realized Harley must have left a hickey there. She blushed, but not from embarrassment.

“What do you have on the whereabouts of Harley Quinn?” she asked through gritted teeth, hands gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles began to turn white. Leland’s brows knit together.

“You wanna catch me up to speed here, Pam?”

Before the redhead could open her mouth, the phone on the desk rang. Leland picked it up in an instant.

“Dr. Leland speaking. … Uh-huh. … Yes. … Oh, fuck. Excuse me, I- … No, yes, I understand. I’ll let my team know. … No, I’ll tell them, they don't have a superior. … Bye.”

Leland set the phone back down as she reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose, her eyes screwing shut. The alarms cut off as quickly as they had come, and Pamela could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears for the first time.

“Well, Joker escaped. He's now officially the responsibility of the Gotham City Police Department. Until the police get a hold of him again, he's no concern of ours. _Harley Quinn_ , on the other hand, is an entirely different story. She tried to follow after Joker and was taken down on the front steps of the Asylum. But,” Leland sat in her chair and leaned back easily, looking up at Pamela through her long lashes, “I suspect you already know a little something about that, don’t you?”

Pamela clenched her jaw.

“I ran into her while she was trying to escape. I haven't seen her since.”

Leland nodded, though it was clear she smelled bullshit.

“We can unpack that later. Right now I need to know why you think your colleague is going to kill you.”

“Because _he is_ ,” Pamela hissed. “I pissed him off on a personal level, that was bad enough, but not I’ve put his job on the line. He went after Harley to get even with me, and then the Joker interfered, and now Harley and Joker both know about the truth behind Project Floron, and Harley might talk in here, which is bad enough as it is, but Joker could also talk out there, which makes this a thousand times worse, and I am convinced that the next time Jason sees me is going to murder me where I stand.”

Leland buried her face in her hands, wondering if the pretty botanist was really worth all the drama she seemed to drag through the door every time she stepped into this office.

“If you really think he’s going to harm you, I’m obligated to tell Doctor Arkham.”

“Right,” Pamela nodded. “Somehow I really don’t see that conversation turning out in my favor. Arkham and Jason have some kind of… camaraderie. I can’t explain it.”

“Well, Jesus, Pamela, what do you want me to do then?!” Joan barked, hands dropping from her face. “Every time I offer you a solution you shoot it down.”

“Sorry, I thought you were a psychiatrist,” Pamela bit back. “Nevermind, then, I’ll figure it out.”

“Wait,” Joan groaned as Pamela stood from her seat and headed for the door. “Pam, wait—”

But Pamela was already powering down the hall, leaving the door to swing on its hinges behind her. She could hear Leland calling after her.

In a way, it was liberating. She might have ruined the only friendship she had, and maybe her colleague wanted to kill her, and perhaps her boss was a selfish egomaniac, and maybe she’d just had the best orgasm of her life only to be literally thrown aside by an insane ex-psychiatrist turned her patient, but goddamn it, she felt _alive_. She was allowed to feel angry, for once. Perfect, rich Pamela couldn’t be angry at her emotionally void parents, how privileged would that have seemed? And she couldn’t be mad for getting an easy A in her freshman botany class because the professor slid his hand up her skirt, how selfish would that have been? But now, she had a right to be angry. And she fucking was.

“Pamela!” a voice barked from behind her, disrupting her from her thoughts. She nearly jumped into the air as Jason jogged up beside her, his brows knit together in an angry way.

“Jason,” she nodded.

“Are you sure you should be out of your office?” he wondered in a fake attempt at concern. “The Asylum’s on lockdown.”

“They cut the alarms. I’m heading to my office now.”

“With purpose, I see.”

“Do you want something, Jason?”

“You told The Joker about Project Floron,” Jason cut to the chase.

“That is a fact, yes.”

“I don’t care for that, Pam.”

“And I don’t care for you micromanaging me as if I’m not your equal, Jason,” Pam spat back. “I recognize you have been in the job longer than I have, but you’re a sadist and a backstabber and I’m out of Project Floron, do you understand?”

They reached the entrance to maximum security. Normally Pamela would be terrified to enter the hall, but as she fumbled with her keycard, she realized she couldn’t get into the den of the criminally insane fast enough if it meant getting away from Jason. Finally, the light turned green and she pushed the door open. She wasn’t surprised to find the inmates a good deal rowdier than usual given the excitement of a lockdown and two misplaced patients.

“You can’t be out of Project Floron,” Jason spoke, his voice raised so she could hear him over the steady drone of patients’ voices. “I need you.”

_Need me to be your cover in case you get found out. Need to throw someone under the bus if you have to, maybe._

“I won’t,” Pamela stated simply. She couldn’t help but stare into the Joker’s and Harley’s conjoined cells as she passed them. She could see the tip of a blue pen peeking out from under Harley’s bed mat. “You can take it up with Dr. Arkham. I never even agreed to be your partner on this project. I agreed to plant therapy. I agreed to gardening classes and teaching these inmates how to plant gardenias. Christ. It’s not my fault you were denied that grant and now you have to experiment illegally on inmates that society won’t ever go looking for. It’s not—”

“Pamela!” Jason roared, stopping her in her tracks. His hand twitched, and she noticed, her brow arching as she looked at the nearest security camera.

“This is probably the absolute dumbest place in the entire building that you could try something,” she pointed out. His face was red with blood and the vein in his forehead bulged, but his hand stilled at his side. She nodded.

“I think I’m going to stay here with the inmates for a while.”

Jason scoffed, smoothing his hair down with trembling hands.

“You have to leave the Asylum sometime, Pam. And when you do, I’ll be there, ready to continue this little chat of ours.”

He swept down the hall, leaving Pamela alone in the sea of groaning, screaming, hackling madmen. She let out a single choked sob, leaning up against the glass of one of the cells. She didn’t know whose it was, but she had enough faith in the design of the glass at this point. Glancing down to her let, she could still see the Joker’s empty cell. She wondered how he had escaped — everything looked intact.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The deep voice startled Pamela and she jerked away from the glass, turning around to make sure she wasn't in any immediate danger. Swallowing, her eyes traveled up a towering, stocky, muscular body until settling on a masked face.

“You’re Bane,” Pamela realized. “Right?”

“Indeed,” came Bane’s deep, muffled reply. She wondered what he would sound like without his mask on. "And you are Dr. Isley."

“How do you know my name?”

“A pretty new doctor starts at Arkham Asylum quickly becomes the latest cellblock talk. And,” Pamela couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw the hint of a blush in the small part of Bane’s cheeks that weren't covered, “I tried to sign up for your gardening therapy class.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His blush deepened.

“It conflicted with Classical Music of the Baroque period.”

Pamela found herself smiling for the first time in too long. She was suddenly grateful beyond measure for this giant man’s presence.

“I see. Well, perhaps I can offer you private lessons outside of regular class time?” she offered, trying not to think about the fact that she may not ever teach another botany class again, given the circumstances. But from the way Bane’s face lit up, she ventured, the offer was well worth it.

“If it’s no trouble Dr. Isley, I—”

They were interrupted suddenly by the sound of the maximum doors being thrown open and the sounds of voices filling the hall. The rowdy inmates only stirred more as Harley Quinn was dragged in practically by the nape of her neck.

Pamela’s heart plummeted. She hadn’t seen Harley’s face since they’d smacked into each other outside of the janitor’s closet. There was a bruise on her jaw and she had a black eye, but she didn’t seem perturbed. In fact, she was almost… limp?

“Is she conscious?” Pamela wondered aloud.

“Perhaps she is just upset that she has been left by her lover,” Bane shrugged.

Bane was right — Harley’s eyes were open, but they were downcast, and there was little life behind them.

The guards flanking her didn’t seem to notice Pamela as they stumbled down the hall towards the blonde’s cell, nor did Dr. Arkham, who walked a safe five feet behind the posse. As they neared her, Pamela noticed a small prick in Harley’s neck, just small enough for a needle to have been inserted there. Of course, she'd been sedated.

“Get her in there!” one guard barked. Somewhere, a code was pressed into a computer and the glass door slid open. Harley was thrown in haphazardly, and Pamela found herself wincing in sympathy as the blonde stumbled into the metal frame of her bed knees-first before slumping over. Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to care.

The glass door slid shut and all but one of the guards were ordered out by Dr. Arkham, who glared into Harley’s cell even as she flopped onto her bed in a haze, her dirty feet at the pillow end.

“I want all eyes on Quinn,” Dr. Arkham ordered the guard, who nodded before noticing Pamela standing dumbly just three cells down. He jerked his head in her direction and Dr. Arkham turned to notice her for the first time.

“Dr. Isley,” he mumbled, surprised. As he began to walk towards her, Pamela turned back to Bane for some sort of support, but he had retreated to the back wall of his cell. Grimacing, she turned back towards her advancing superior.

“Dr. Arkham.”

“What on earth are you doing in here?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, the asylum isn’t on lockdown anymore,” she noted. “And I have to walk through here to get to my office, so—”

“Of course, of course, allow me to escort—”

“Actually, doctor,” Pamela interrupted, “I’d rather just go ahead and… is it… is it okay if I go home for the day? Since I’m not on the psych team I—”

“Oh! Oh yes, of course! Yes, I’ll just… do you need me to escort you out?”

“I can manage.”

She turned to walk away but stopped herself, looking back to Dr. Arkham.

“Doctor, why wasn’t Miss Quinn moved to solitary?”

“Ah.” Arkham nodded. “Well, since she didn't succeed in escaping, and it appeared the Joker didn’t include her in his plans, we figured to give her another shot with her peers. Who wouldn’t try to escape if the opportunity fell into their lap, hmm?”

Pamela nodded, setting her jaw. When she looked at Harley, she saw the blonde was fiddling with one of her pens again. A bubble of drool was clinging on the corner of her mouth and again came the shameful pang of sympathy. Pamela shook herself out of it. She had an opportunity to leave while Jason was distracted in his own office and she needed to take it.

“Great. Thank you, Dr. Arkham. I’ll see you tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Until tomorrow, Dr. Isley. Stay safe. There’s a madman on the loose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case y'all were wondering, my Bane is definitely more of a Harley Quinn Animated Series Bane!! Hang in there, Harlivy content will return shortly <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends! This is a shorty, I apologize -- university is starting again and my love life is... complicated, to say the least, but I didn't want to go to too long without updating. And what this chapter lacks in length, it makes up for with a juicy plot detail.......

Leland was nursing her second coffee (complete with three or so counts of Irish cream, to be sure) when her phone rang the following morning. She let it ring for a moment, seriously debating picking it up, before remembering that somebody had to do their goddamned job at this godforsaken place. She picked it up on the third ring and sighed into the receiver.

“Dr. Leland’s office.”

“Joan.”

Leland hummed.

“Pamela.”

“I need a favor.”

“Oh?” Leland chuckled. “You _need_ a favor, do you?”

“I’ll be your best friend.”

Leland didn’t understand this hot and cold act with Pamela, and she didn’t much care for it, but she certainly preferred bad jokes Pamela over asshole Pamela.

“It depends.”

“I want to focus all of my energy on Harley Quinn,” Pamela continued like she knew Leland would agree. “I want to drop my other patients. Not permanently, I understand their psychiatrists have recommended my therapy for their recovery program, I can appreciate that, and I know we need a control group, but I want-”

“Pamela-“

“I want to use her as a case study. Just for a few weeks. Then I can take on my other patients.”

“And what does Jason think about this?” Leland wondered.

“He doesn’t know. He’ll treat his patients business as usual.”

Pamela actually didn’t know if that was true. She didn’t even know if he had begun testing for Project Floron yet, or if he was still planning on it. She was still avoiding him. Frankly, she was surprised she wasn’t dead yet.

“If Jason keeps his current patients and keeps up with his updates, I don’t see why not,” the psychiatrist sighed. “I’ll need to run it by Dr. Arkham later.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

“Are we best friends now?”

Pamela laughed a little, almost like everything that had happened was water under the bridge now.

“Okay, Joan.”

“You’re crazy, Pamela.”

“No, I just work with the crazies.”

Leland pulled her calendar out, searching for Harley’s weekly schedule. She didn’t track every patient, but she’d always made sure she knew exactly where Harley was in the building at all times. Since the little stunt yesterday, she figured some activities and free time would be redacted, but Pamela’s program was therapy, right?

“When did you want to get started with this, Pam?”

Pamela was gracious enough to wait a few seconds, pretending like she had to think about it.

“How about right now?

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Harley was still groggy from the night before. She was still getting used to looking over to Joker’s cell and seeing it empty. She’d resorted to turning over with her back facing their shared wall, drowning out the sounds of the other inmates and their ugly faces. Sometimes she wondered if they only respected her when Joker was around.

When she heard the door from maximum open faintly from a distance, she paid it no mind — people were always walking through the unit, going to and from offices, collecting patients for rec time, performing inspections. But she couldn’t ignore the pounding on her door that quickly followed.

“Harley Quinn!”

It wasn’t Joe or Mitch, she hadn’t seen either of her regular guards since the take-down on the steps of the Asylum the previous morning. It was a shame, she almost kinda sorta missed them.

“I know my name, thanks,” she mumbled, tucking closer into herself.

“Outta bed, Quinn,” the guard ordered. “You got gardening therapy from 10 to 2.”

Finally, her ears perked. Gardening therapy. With plant lady. Doc. Red. She was still doing that? How could she face Pamela after what had happened? Or had she been transferred to Woodrue over a conflict of interest? Harley couldn’t tell who she would rather prefer.

Sitting up and looking out of her cell, she spotted none other than Dr. Pamela Isley standing beside the guard, looking very much like the Mona Lisa with her unreadable expression. Harley didn’t like it — up until now, she had been able to read the redhead like a book.

“Hiya, Do-”

“Up and at ‘em, Miss Quinn. I have a lot to discuss with you.”

They didn’t go to Pamela’s office like Harley was expecting. Pamela led the way as Harley’s ankles and wrists were cuffed with chains, loose enough that she could walk stiffly on her own but not enough that she could make a run for it.

The new guard tensed beside them as the unlikely trio made their way towards the door that opened into the gated courtyard. Pamela felt for him. He looked new, definitely inexperienced, and she could tell he knew that if Harley somehow made it out of her cuffs, he would be no match for her. But still she pressed on, leading her patient towards the greenhouse.

“That will be all, thank you,” the young doctor nodded when they reached the greenhouse door.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” he grunted, trying his damndest to sound tough, it seemed.

“Wonderful. Miss Quinn, inside, please.”

Harley quirked a brow as Pamela held the door into the greenhouse open.

“Ain’tcha gonna ask him to take off my cuffs?”

“No, I’m not.”

Harley’s other eyebrow raised incredulously, but she stood still.

“I won’t ask again, Miss Quinn,” Pamela warned.

“Jesus, aight.”

The blonde shuffled past her, and Pamela offered nothing but a nod to the guard before following Harley into the room and shutting the door behind her, rendering them alone.

“I thought you said you were gonna make it all pretty in here,” Harley mused, looking around to find that not much had changed from her first time in the space.

“I’m in no mood, Harleen.”

“Don’t call me-”

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please. Sit down.”

Harley liked feisty Pamela. She wanted more. Looking around, she shrugged.

“Where?”

“On a pot, on the floor, I don’t know. Use your imagination, I hear it’s quite something.”

_Ouch._

Harley plopped down on the floor reluctantly as Pamela paced before of her. She looked nervous, Harley finally realized, and that made her nervous. What exactly was she alone in a greenhouse with her doctor for? Was she going to be reprimanded for what had happened in the closet? Did Pamela want to pick up where they had left off? But before she could voice any of her concerns, the answer came tumbling from the redhead’s lips.

“Harley, I need you to help me kill Jason.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little juicier chapter, I love you guys <3 Finally got a chapter count, I officially have drafted the entirety of this story! This may be my last full Harlivy fic, but I'm sure I'll return for the occasional oneshot! But we still got a bit of time before we come to that any gooey, gay "thank you all so much for reading my stuff ilysm" bullshit. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> xx Derbs

Harley could hardly believe the words she was hearing. Had Pamela forgotten what had happened yesterday? Had it really not affected her? The redhead didn’t seem like the type to let something go, especially not something so betraying. But then, there was something in Pamela’s features that the blonde recognized — a fear past her eyes, a twitch in her hand. Harley knew a little something of what it was like to be terrified of a man, love or no love. And she knew what it was like to fear for one’s life. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, she choked down the swell of Harleen Quinzel’s voice chattering away in the back of her mind as best she could.

“What do you need me to do?”

Pamela looked aghast.

“I— you— don’t you want to know why?”

Harley shrugged as she stood and leaned against the picnic table-like structure nearest her.

“You ever killed someone before?”

“Well… no.”

“And you care about your career and not goin’a jail?”

“Obviously.”

“And you’re afraid for your life.”

“I’m not af—”

“So then you must have a good reason to wan’ him dead,” Harley concluded. “S’not really my business the who’s an’ what’s of it all. So, what do you need me to do?”

“Well, I… I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, honestly,” Pamela sighed, sitting down on the rickety bench of the rotting picnic table. “I just know that I have to kill him before I give him the chance to kill me.”

Harley nodded.

“Uhuh. Look, Doc, killin’ someone in Arkham Asylum’s easier than you’d think, but it still ain’t easy. So I’ll tell ya what. I do somethin’ for you, and you can do somethin’ for me. Sound good?”

Pamela looked up wearily.

“Okay?”

“Great,” Harley nodded. “To get away with somethin’ like this, you’re gonna need some sorta distraction. I can’t just walk outta my cell and kill an employee. So, I’ll do this for you if you agree to help me out.”

“Yeah, help you out how?”

“No, Doc, help me _out_. Outta Arkham. Help me escape.”

Pamela was dumbstruck.

“I… I guess that’s fair?”

“You guess?” Harley scoffed. “I’m committin’ murder. All you gotta do is act a li’l. Can you do that?”

“I can try,” Pamela grumbled. “What exactly are you thinking?”

Harley’s plan really was simple enough. The following day, Pamela would go to Bane and offer to take him on as an extra patient in exchange for his help in staging a diversion. Then, they would wait until Harley’s next scheduled appointment when she was on her way to the botanist’s office. She would only be flanked by a guard or two, three at the very most — dangerous as she was, she wasn’t the only dangerous criminal in the institution, and guards weren’t just growing on trees. Before Harley would make it to the office, Bane would be attending lunch in the cafeteria and begin to pick a fight with an inmate of his choosing (it didn’t really matter much which one, Bane would rip any one of them in half with his bare hands). As the entire asylum fixated on him, Harley would pick the lock of her handcuffs with the coil of one of the pens she had stashed under her pillow, take down whatever guards dared intervene, and make her way to Jason’s office. In the chaos of it all, she would kill him, plain and simple. Then, she would steal his keycard, throw on his lab coat, pull her hair up into a high pony, and escape while the entire Asylum focused on sedating men. By the time the guards and Woodrue were found and Harley was discovered missing, the Cupid of Crime would be back in her jester’s arms.

“There’s a lot riding on that,” Pamela pointed out as Harley finished. “How do you know Bane will agree?”

“Trust me,” the blonde chuckled, “I share a crafts class with him, all he wants is a spot in your program. ‘Sides, he’s a feminist all over.”

Hearing Harley say that sent a flutter of warmth through Pamela's chest — she had never been appreciated like that before, even in such a menial way, even as a teacher.

“But how can I know you’ll actually kill Jason?” Pamela asked. “You could just run away during the commotion.”

“And then who’d I get the keycard from, Doc, hmm?” Harley pointed out with a smirk. “Plus, he was totally gonna inject me with his weird plant goo.”

Her expression softened and her eyes darted down.

“And I know a little bit of what it’s like to be afraid of someone you work with.”

“Oh,” Pamela sighed. “Right. Joker."

"Yeah, I mean--"

"Why do you stay with him?”

The softness reflecting in Harley’s eyes dissipated and she grimaced.

“Listen, Red, that’s my business an’ no one else’s. Who’re you to judge? You’re doin’ the exact same thing, in case you didn’ notice.”

“Yes, and I’m asking you to kill my aggressor. Vastly different than being his willing girlfriend and resident plaything.”

“You’re on thin fuckin’ ice here, Red."

Pamela knew it, she could tell. But she’d only been trying to sympathize and Harley had instead hit a nerve, so the redhead felt it necessary to defend herself.

Still, in a loose and roundabout sort of way, her very life was dependent upon Harley’s willingness to help her in this moment.

“I know,” Pamela mumbled. “I know, I’m sorry. I just… are you going back to him when you get out?”

“‘Course,” Harley shrugged. “Where else would I go?”

Pamela didn’t have an answer for that.

“But then… what will happen to you and me?”

Harley looked exactly like Pamela felt. She physically drew back an inch or two, her brows knitting tightly together. Pamela was worried her intention had been miscontstrued.

“I mean to say, what will happen to _us_.”

“'Us,'” Harley repeated cautiously. “Whad'ya mean by us?”

“Well, of course, you have Joker, and I know that he doesn’t mind… erm, ‘sharing,’ -- your words -- but I don’t think I really… I couldn’t share you.”

Harley looked a little flattered for a second before correcting herself.

“I don’t really belong to ya, so… you don’t have to.”

_Ow. Ow ow ow._

“Look, Doc,” Harley continued, finally looking remorseful. “I wanna tell ya I'm sorry. I really didja dirty yesterday, I know it. But I think I should clarify somethin’. I’m Joker’s girl. I’m always gonna be Joker’s girl.”

Pamela nodded, eyes downcast as she searched the floor for her dignity.

“I know.”

“Good,” Harley nodded. “But I also think you got the right to know somethin’ else. The closet thing was hot. Really hot. Tell ya the truth, I wasn’t spos’da like it — ya prolly figured out I was just usin’ you to get away — but…”

“You didn’t have to do all that if you were just using me, Harley,” Pamela assured. “You could’ve just… asked, really.”

Harley shrugged.

“Yeah, well… well, maybe a part’a me really did wanna kiss you, then.”

Pamela felt a lump form in her throat as Harley stepped closer toward her.

“You always say Joker doesn’t mind sharing you. But what about you? Don’t you mind being shared?”

“If I’m bein’ shared with you?” Harley asked, officially stepping too close to do anything respectable. Pamela felt her neck prickle with heat. She hoped the blush didn’t show in her cheeks.

“Naw, I don’t mind a bit.”

“And what about what I mind?” Pamela asked.

“You don’t mind a bit,” Harley answered for her, sliding into Pamela’s lap with her knees on either side of the botanist’s hips. “Do you, honey?”

Pamela’s head tipped back instinctively, her eyelids already feeling heavy. The pet name, newest addition to the already extensive list, made her heart hammer. Or maybe it was Harley straddling her. Or maybe it was Harley telling her what she liked and didn’t like. Or maybe it was the way Harley’s hips were starting to wiggle gently back and forth.

“I d- don’t mind.”

Harley cupped Pamela’ jaw with both hands, tilting a little to expose the redhead’s neck. She kissed warm skin, the woman beneath her shivering and humming softly. Harley worked her way towards the other woman’s ear, tongue tracing the shell gently.

“Is this okay?”

It was enough to push Pamela to relent. Her self-control and resolve melted away and her arms wrapped around the woman in her lap, pulling her in closer. She had no idea how the psychopath could be so endearing and gentle and simultaneously sexy and commanding. And really, she wanted to feel Harley in a way she hadn’t been able to in the closet. That space had been confined, claustrophobic, the air thick with heat and chemicals. Here, Pamela was in her element. The greenhouse wasn’t perfect yet, but it was the cleanest air past Arkham’s front gates, and there were pots and soil and the little rosebush she and Harley had planted together that was already blossoming fruitfully under Pamela’s watchful eye. Her fingers smoothed up Harley’s sides.

“It’s okay.”

Harley smiled, sitting up on her knees to urge Pamela back against the tabletop. The redhead obeyed, her heels still resting on the bench of the picnic table as she settled into her new position. Harley adjusted between her legs, kissing Pamela on the mouth again for the first time. The redhead hummed against pink lips, remembering that this was what she’d loved the most when she'd been pinned against the closet door.

As Harley worked her way down Pamela’s body, the latter tugged. The blonde looked up inquisitively.

“What’s up, Red?”

“Can you, uhm…”

Pamela was finding the request to be a difficult one to voice, but Harley noticed long, slender fingers clenching at her sides.

“D’you wan’ me to finger you?”

Pamela gasped. Hearing the words out loud was something else entirely. She nodded.

“I just want to feel you on top of me. Against me. I don’t know if I ever… if we’ll get another chance to—”

“Hey, you don’t have to convince me,” Harley smiled. “Scoot over.”

They tried their hardest to be quiet, seeing as how the greenhouse walls were little more than wire and fogged up plastic. And if the guard had heard anything, he kept his mouth shut as the pair stepped out of the greenhouse to head back inside, one walking on wobbly legs and the other with a massive grin plastered across her face from ear-to-ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexa play Bette Davis Eyes by Kim Carnes


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